


Would You Do Me the Honour

by emmett



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ensemble Cast, Enthusiastic Consent, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Modern Thedas, Romantic Comedy, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, except solas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-24 17:27:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 73,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22461748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmett/pseuds/emmett
Summary: “Dorian Pavus, you are my second favourite ‘Vint. Would you do me the honour of - what was it? Oh - gay marrying me so you don’t have to go back to Tevinter?”in which Dorian’s visa runs out, The Iron Bull takes a rom-com approach to problem solving and Cassandra knows more than she's letting on.the fake marriage!au nobody asked for (but everybody wants)
Relationships: Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 301
Kudos: 307





	1. An Elegant Solution

**Author's Note:**

> This is fic started as a discussion to keep us amused while stuck in traffic and now we're here. Significant credit to [illimerence](/users/illimerence/pseuds/illimerence) for not only inspiring and editing this for me, but also contributing a number of truly excellent lines. This is the first thing I've posted in 8 entire years (I checked) and I would't have been able to do it without them.
> 
> As this fic is still in progress the total number of chapters, tags, and rating are subject to change - I'll make sure to mention it if that happens. 
> 
> There will be drama, cussing, communication, and consent, but at its core, this is a rom-com. Enjoy.

Dorian scans the stack of mailboxes as he walks through the lobby of his building, snatching out what appears to mostly be junkmail and building notices from his own, tossing most of them directly into the recycling bin thoughtfully located halfway between the mailboxes and the stairs. There are exactly two actual letters in the pile. The first is a notice from the library in a brown paper envelope. The second is of thicker, fancier paper - the sort you can’t see through even if you hold it up to a bright light - with the crest of the Ferelden Government in one corner. 

He scrambles up the two flights of stairs to his apartment and locks the door behind him, carefully placing the letter on in the centre of the kitchen bench and preparing a glass of wine. Ready now, he carefully slices open the envelope with a kitchen knife, knowing from experience that trying to rip it open is likely to result only in a mangled envelope and a frustrated Pavus.

The letter is thin, a single page only and Dorian arms himself with his glass of wine before unfolding it.

      
_Dear Mr Pavus,_  
  
 _We regret to inform you that your application for residency with special consideration has been declined. As there is less than one month left on your current work visa as of the date of this letter, you have been granted an additional month’s temporary visa to allow you to make arrangements to leave Ferelden..._  


The letter goes on, some bullshit about calling them if you disagree and specifics about when he’s next allowed to request a visa, but Dorian doesn’t bother to read it. He knows the immigration policy inside out and is quite aware that it’s going to be years before he can make another attempt. He is quite tempted to rip the letter into tiny pieces, or scream until his neighbours call noise control. Instead he finishes his glass of wine, picks his keys right back up out of the fruit bowl and stalks out the door to deal with his emotions in the traditional Pavus manner - by getting absolutely shit-faced.

It’s barely seven on a Tuesday night when Dorian makes it to Varric’s bar. There’s a small handful of people around, and Varric himself is nowhere to be seen - though Dorian can hear his voice echoing out from the back room. Dorian doesn’t bother to call out, simply lifts the latch, raises the bench that lets him behind the bar and begins scanning Varric’s collection of reds. Once he finds something with a sufficiently high alcohol content, he drops a ten sovereign note on the till - which, after Dorian’s first swig seems excessive - then hops back over the bar and begins drinking.

When Varric exits the back room of his bar at 7:08PM, he finds Dorian Pavus _chugging_ directly from a bottle of red wine that Varric keeps on hand exclusively for broke college students.

_"Dorian!"_

Dorian lowers the bottle and gives him a look. “I paid for it!” He says, pointing at the cash sitting on the till. “Far more than it’s worth I’d say.”

“That’s not what I-” Varric sighs. “Are you okay?”

The looks of disdain Varric is leveled with is pure Tevinter. “What do you think?” Dorian asks, raising the bottle to his lips. 

Varric doesn’t bother to ask anything more, just pulls out his phone and snaps a picture of Dorian Pavus swigging 5 buck chuck directly from the bottle and posts it on the group chat.

His phone blips softly as various people see the message. None reply but by the time Dorian’s into his second bottle, Sera’s stomping through the door. 

“Y’know,” she says, hopping up onto the stool beside him, “drinking alone on a Tuesday night is pretty pathetic.”

Dorian scoffs and puts his bottle down, waving Varric over, “Another bottle of disgusting wine for the lady please, barkeep.”

Varric looks to Sera who shakes her head, “I think fancy pants has a head start. I need _shots."_

Herah and Josephine arrive not long after Sera, as does Cole - though as far as Varric can tell he hasn’t touched his cell in about a week. Vivienne does not show, but she does reply with the name of a much more respectable vintage and instructions to put it on her tab. 

Dorian has finally started talking, but is refusing to tell them what’s going on until ‘everyone is here’. He’s somewhat fuzzy on who ‘everyone’ is, but is adamant that he not repeat his story more than once. 

Cullen and Cassandra show up not long after, and with the number of people now crowding around the bar, Cassandra attempts to drag Dorian over to a table. He refuses of course, so Cullen shrugs and drags the table to him.

Krem and The Iron Bull aren’t far behind them, and join the rest of the crew. This, finally, satisfies Dorian’s need for an audience. 

“Today,” Dorian says, in his storytelling voice, leaning down slightly from his elevated spot on his barstool. “I received this.” He pulls out an envelope and tosses it onto the table. 

“An overdue notice from the library?” Cassandra says. “Dorian. This is not a good thing but I do not think it is worthy of this.” She gestures at the now three bottles of wine Dorian has collected beside him.

“Oh, no, not that one.” Dorian frowns, pulls the second letter out of his pocket, and hands it over.

The lot of them lean in, attempting to read over each other’s shoulders. There is silence for a moment while they absorb the letter’s content, and when they look up, Dorian’s staring back, solemn. 

_"Kaffas,”_ Krem says, his chair squeaking as he pushes it back and moves to Dorian’s side, “I’m so sorry. Isn’t there, I mean can’t you do something? Explain the situation?”

“I tried. Turns out that being a flaming queer doesn’t qualify for special consideration.”

There’s no one else in the bar anyway, so Varric locks the doors and opens up the bar, announcing that they all (with the exception of Sera), have a lot of catching up to do. By nine thirty Sera’s just about on the floor and their conversation has moved from reasonable solutions for keeping Dorian out of Tevinter (Josephine in particular has ways of organising a visa in Antiva) to rather outrageous solutions for keeping Dorian in Fereldan. 

“I still reckon,” Sera says, “that you just, you just stay.”

“As I said,” Dorian says, leaning sideways so that he can make eye contact with her, from where her head’s cushioned on Herah’s lap, “They know who I am. I’ll get arrested.”

“Not,” she says, levering herself up to something approaching upright, “if you shave off your mustache! They’ll _never_ find you!”

Dorian’s hands fly to his face, as though protecting his facial hair, eliciting a range of snorts and giggles from around the table. 

The Iron Bull leans back in his chair, a universal signal that he’s about to make either a clever comment or a terrible pun. “You could always get hitched?”

“If I was willing to marry some poor woman I would have stayed in Tevinter,” Dorian points out, and attempts to down the last of his current bottle of wine.

“This is Ferelden, you plonker!” Sera says. “You can marry whoever you bloody like! Even - you could marry Bull!”

Dorian chokes on his wine, not protesting as Cullen tugs it out of his hands as he lowers it, spluttering, to look at Bull. 

Bull has an almost smug look on his face, and shrugs. “She’s right you know. I have citizenship.”

“And,” Varric adds, “Cassandra’s a celebrant.”

_“What?"_ Dorian asks as Cassandra demands _"How do you know that?"_ from Varric.

“While I admire your ingenuity,” Dorian says, getting off his seat to remove himself from the line of fire between Cassandra and Varric, “It’s not exactly feasible.”

“It would work,” Josephine points out. “Ferelden immigration laws have always had very reasonable accommodations for those married to citizens.”

“I understand that, but really!” Dorian argues, “While I am handsome and witty and charming-”

“And humble!”

“And humble, thank you Herah, I still doubt I could impose on anyone like that.”

“You’ve gotta admit,” Krem points out, “There’s something poetic about avoiding return to Tevinter via gay marriage to a qunari.”

He has a point.

Before Dorian’s poor, wine-soaked brain has a chance to come up with another excuse, Bull is getting up out of his chair and then back down on one knee (it takes two tries as he forgets which is his bad one), leaving him still nearly eye level with Dorian, then reaches over and snags an onion ring from the basket on the table.

“Dorian Pavus, you are my second favourite ‘Vint. Would you do me the honour of - what was it? Oh - gay marrying me so you don’t have to go back to Tevinter?”

He holds the onion ring up and after a brief stocktake of his entire life Dorian determines that he has never been in a more ridiculous situation. 

“You know what,” he says, sticking his finger out, “sure.”

\--

Wednesday morning rises brighter and earlier than it has any right to. Dorian’s made it to not only his own apartment but his own bed. As has Sera, he discovers, drowsily rolling towards the warm presence next to him only to impale himself on Sera’s elbow. 

Rolling back to safety, Dorian blindly pats his hand across the nightstand, knocking off his phone, book and what sounds like some pocket change before finding his bottle of water. It’s warm and stale but blessed nonetheless. He downs half of it before tossing the rest in the direction of the shuffling, Sera-shaped mass beside him.

“Why’d you have so many bloody pillows?” she says, kicking one off the bed. Dorian’s not quite sure how it ended up near her feet in the first place.

“Coming from the woman whose bed _is_ a pile of pillows.”

“I have a mattress. And they ain’t pillows, they’re cushions. _Sex cushions.”_

Dorian groans and pushes at her lazily with his foot. He catches a ticklish spot and Sera disappears over the side of the bed with a yell, her landing muffled.

“That,” Dorian says, dragging the blanket back over his head, “is why I have so many pillows.”

\-- 

He wakes up for real a few hours later, when the need to piss overtakes his need to be somewhere dark and soft. Sera, apparently, is happy enough on the floor, so Dorian walks around her.

When he’s done, he makes them both a cup of coffee and digs some hash browns out of the freezer.

The smell of food rouses Sera shortly after and she stumbles out into the kitchen, hissing at the light. 

“Yesssssssss,” she says, grabbing a hash brown and biting into it, before “Hot! Hot!” and spitting it out onto her plate.

“You’re disgusting,” Dorian says, almost fondly, and Sera grins back at him.

“That’s not a very nice thing to say to your best man.”

“Best man?”

“Yeah, you know, at your wedding.”

Dorian chokes on his coffee.

\--

By noon Dorian has decided to pretend that Bull’s proposal had never happened - he can’t, after all, have been serious, yet the relief Dorian had felt had been immeasurable. Fuelled by an excessive amount of wine, but blessed nonetheless. The weight of the situation slamming back down on his chest had been hard enough once, there’s no way he’s getting his hopes up again because Bull could not possibly have meant it. 

Herah comes by around three, looking far better off than either Sera or Dorian. Whether that’s due to her qunari constitution or simply Josephine’s good influence, Dorian isn’t sure, but he’s queasy enough that her sunny demeanor is infuriating.

“Why the sulk?” she asks, lifting Sera off the couch, sprawling out and then replacing Sera on her lap. “Ow, bony.”

“I ‘unno. He’s been pissy all day.”

“I’m sorry, I had assumed that my pending deportation was sufficient reason for a sour mood,” Dorian snaps.

“Oh,” Herah says, “That.”

“Yes. That.”

“I thought we fixed that?”

Dorian gapes at her. It’s not the most poised reaction - but he is rather hungover.

“Yeah,” Sera adds, “with Bull and that.”

Dorian closes his mouth, and breathes deeply to prevent his face from flushing. 

“That,” he says, “was a joke. A very sweet attempt at raising my spirit, I’ll admit, but a joke.”

Herah and Sera look at each other, eyebrows raised, then back at Dorian with a synchronicity that is almost comical.

“I don’t think he was joking,” Herah says.

Dorian sighs, “Of course he was. You don’t just marry a friend to keep them from being deported - even if your friend is as handsome and accomplished as I am.”

“And fancy!” Sera adds.

“And fancy.” Dorian acquiesces.

Herah shifts Sera off her lap and leans forward in her ‘this is a very serious conversation that we’re having’ pose. 

“None of us want you to leave - especially not if it means your having to go back to Tevinter. I’d marry you myself if it wasn’t for, you know...”

“Being a big lesbian?” Sera offers.

“Yes. That. And Josephine.”

“Again,” Dorian says, “That’s very sweet of you. And of Bull, but it wasn’t a serious offer.”

“I’m pretty sure he meant it.”

“He used an _onion ring!”_

Sera snorts. “S’not like he had time to go buy a real one.”

After another twenty minutes of attempts to convince Dorian that Bull’s joke proposal was serious, he kicks the both of them out.

\--

Thursday afternoon, Dorian is convinced to join the others for dinner at Cullen’s. Frankly, the only reason Dorian agrees is that he’s never tasted Cullen’s cooking (he wasn’t even sure Cullen had a kitchen).

He’s late - ostensibly because he wants to be fashionable, but in reality because his purple socks are missing off the line and they’re the only ones that fit right in his boots _and_ look good with his shirt, and he ends up having to entirely change his outfit.

He walks, because Cullen’s loft is nearby and because he intends to drink quite a lot. 

It’s not a full house, but Cassandra’s there, as are Josephine, Herah and _Bull._ Dorian leaves his boots with the pile of others by the door and manages to find his way to Cullen’s kitchen (which does actually exist) without knocking over a single pile of books. 

Josephine is directing Cullen - who looks about ready to either tear his hair out or cry - so Dorian pours himself a glass of wine, throws a tea towel over his shoulder and takes over stirring the stew.

It’s not bad, but hardly spicy enough, so Dorian goes rummaging for spices. There are five. All in brand new packages - as well as a nearly empty bottle of soy sauce. He shakes his head and makes a note to give Cullen both his spice collection and cooking lessons when he leaves. 

Eventually Josephine shoos Cullen off, and Dorian too - out of principle - and Dorian squeezes into a space on the couch, carefully avoiding the Iron Bull’s gaze without appearing to avoid it. The wine helps him relax, and when, by the time the food is ready, no one has mentioned either Dorian’s imminent departure or Bull’s joke proposal, Dorian allows himself to relax, trying not to let his chest clench up too much at the thought that he has a limited number of these evenings left.

He takes his dishes out and then takes a wander down the hall to Cullen’s disaster of a study nook, just to settle his nerves. He has very nearly caved and begun to sort the catastrophe of papers on the desk when he hears footsteps approaching. He finds a relatively interesting book to pretend to be focusing on by the time the person - Bull, he can tell - gets closer.

“How’s it going?” Bull asks.

Dorian drags his eyes from the book, “Well enough, thanks. Yourself?”

“Yeah, good.”

Dorian’s not sure he’s ever witnessed The Iron Bull in an awkward silence before. The man is, however, nothing if not brave and he breaks it before Dorian is forced to make a witty and possibly cruel comment to ease the tension. 

“I was serious.”

Dorian groans. “Who talked to you?”

“Sera. Said you didn’t think I meant what I said.”

“You had had rather a lot to drink,” Dorian points out.

Bull nods. “Sober now, though.”

“I really do appreciate the sentiment, but you can’t just marry me to keep me here,” Dorian says, laying out the exact argument he’s been making to himself for the last two days.

“Look,” Bull says, “I get marriage - I’ve lived here long enough - but I’m still tal vashoth. It’s not exactly sacred to me, and I can’t really think of a better use than preventing someone I care about being sent back to the shit show that is Tevinter.”

He’s making it very hard for Dorian to stick to his conviction.

“Plus,” Bull adds, “Pretty sure Krem would kill me if I let that happen.”

Dorian pinches the bridge of his nose. “You are making a very strong argument.”

Bull chuckles. “That’s the idea.”

“It’s just,” Dorian’s struggling, “this is ridiculous. A fake marriage, really?”

“Oh no, it’ll be real. That’s sort of the point.”

Dorian levels him with a look, “You know what I mean. It’s like some ridiculous romantic comedy.”

“Always thought I’d be good in one of those.”

Bull starts fumbling in his pocket and pulls out a ring. It’s not in a box, just loose in his ridiculous stripy trousers. It’s plain and silver, with a small flattened section where a stone might have gone. 

“Here,” he says, pressing the ring into Dorian’s palm, “I really am serious. Take this and think it over. I’ll come over Saturday morning and we can talk.”

When Dorian had first left Tevinter, he’d made his way to Orlais, seeking somewhere both cultured enough to seem familiar, and open enough that he could be himself. He’d made friends and admirers quickly enough, and found that his friends were more than happy to take him to bed. 

What he hadn’t anticipated was their reluctance to form relationships. Sex was for fun, marriage was for later and dating was a waste of time. Distracted by his freedom from Tevinter and it’s homophobic double-standards, Dorian had found himself unable to keep up with the Orlesian game - one that trickled down to every social interaction. By the time his Orlesian visa had run out, Dorian was left with no close friends and no job offers. 

He had packed up every warm thing he owned and headed for Ferelden, where he had instituted a firm ‘don’t screw the crew’ policy. It was a policy that worked. He wasn’t celibate - far from it, there was plenty of sex and more than a few attempts at dating, but three years in and Dorian had successfully kept his romantic endeavours out of the circle of people who quickly became his family. 

He’d been tested, certainly. Cullen had given off such a pitiful “please assume I’m straight” aura that Dorian was frequently torn between the desire to kiss him senseless and the pull to talk some sense into him. And then there was Bull. The first person to make Dorian and all of his six feet feel small. Bull with his inability to wear a shirt and his incessant flirting and his well cited reputation for being spectacular in bed. 

Bull who is entirely off limits, currently standing in front of Dorian and holding out a maker-damned engagement ring.

Unable to think of anything to say that won’t make him sound either desperate or frightened, Dorian just nods. Bull smiles, and slaps him on the back, gently pushing Dorian along back into the lounge. 

Dorian sits down beside Herah and carefully tucks the ring into his pocket. She spots it as he does and gives him a small satisfied smile. He glares back and she laughs, stretching her legs out and propping her feet on the coffee table.

“Hey!” Dorian says, reaching for her feet, “my socks!”

\--

Dorian manages to push his looming Discussion With Bull aside for the entirety of his Friday workday. He even manages a surprisingly efficient and productive day, and armed with the satisfaction of having brokered a peace deal between the economics and ecology departments, he picks up a nice bottle of wine, some Antivan takeaway, and sets himself up at the kitchen counter with his favourite fountain pen and a pad of paper he stole from work and begins to assemble an orderly and objective list of the pros and cons of accepting Bull’s offer.

    **_Pros:_**  
 _Ability to legally remain in Ferelden  
_ _Avoid costs of relocation  
_ _No disruption to career  
_ _Potential to obtain magical license_

      
**  
_Cons:_  
**  
_Imposition to the Iron Bull_  
 _Potential to interfere with future relationships_  
 _Cost of Wedding_  
 _Ethically dubious_  


Having the reasons laid out in front of him turns out to be absolutely no use whatsoever. It’s nothing he hasn’t already spent hours mulling over. He needs another perspective.

He calls Vivienne first.

“I believe you’re aware of the difficult position I am in at the moment,” he says, tucking the phone against his shoulder and pouring himself another glass of wine.

“I am aware, yes.”

“And you’re aware that the Iron Bull has made a rather generous, if... unconventional, offer?”

“Indeed. Are you taking him up on his offer?” she asks.

“Well, that is where I’m having an issue. I’m trying to establish the advantages and disadvantages of my options, and I’ve reached something of a deadlock. I was hoping you might have an alternate perspective.”

Vivienne takes a pause, and thankfully Dorian has learned to wait through these.

“The Iron Bull is a gentleman, when he wants to be,” she says finally, “although that’s not very often.”

Dorian frowns, putting his pen down. “That’s true, but I’m not sure it’s really relevant to the question of whether or not I should accept his offer.”

“He’s choosing to be a gentleman for you, Dorian. I wouldn’t sniff at that if I were you.”

“I’m not _sniffing_ at it,” Dorian argues.

“Wonderful. If that’s all then I shall go. Let me know what you decide,” Vivienne says, and hangs up. 

He tries Josephine next, and she manages to articulate exactly the same thoughts Dorian has noted down, the only thing she has to add to his list is “We’ll miss you, Dorian."

Varric takes his call, with the ruckus of the bar in the background, “I can’t think of any cons here sparkler, but as far as pros go, I’ll mention you in the acknowledgements of my next book.”

Cassandra is surprisingly earnest when he calls, listening to his existing list, but refusing to add anything. 

“Not everything needs to be analysed. Sometimes you have to trust that there is a purpose for everything that you may not understand until later.”

Dorian gives up for a little while at this point, turning the TV on surfing through the channels until he finds his favourite cooking show, the one with the flamboyantly gay elf that Dorian’s fairly sure is a mage of sort.

They’re just about to pull the macarons out of the oven when Dorian’s phone buzzes. He fishes it out from the couch cushion and finds a text from Cole:

      
**you want to say yes but not to the question you think he's asking**  


Dorian texts back asking what this supposed question actually is, but there’s no response. 

    

The episode ends and Dorian groans, scrolling through his contacts looking for anyone else that might have something helpful.

    

\--

    

A bottle of slightly shittier wine and two hours later, Dorian’s nowhere. Krem’s response had been “Look, if you can’t figure out whether Bull or Tevinter is the better option, I don’t know what to tell you.” Leliana had just pointed out that it was “an elegant solution,” and by the time Dorian had called Sera, he had, honestly given up on making a decision that night. Nonetheless he had studiously added her comments to his list.

    

“Pro: Bull’s titties.”

    

“They’re not ‘titties’ Sera, they’re his _pectoral muscles.”_

    

“Don’t have the same ring as titties though, does it?”

    

Dorian sighs. “It doesn’t, no.”

    

“Ha! Told you. Write that down. Now, cons... uh, Tevinter-” she says, and follows it with an exceedingly loud raspberry.

    

“Uh, how exactly do I write that down?”

    

“You don’t,” Sera says, in exasperation, “You draw it, like a lil poop emoji.”

    

“Poop emoji?”

    

_"Poop emoji.”_

    

\--

    

When Bull knocks on Dorian’s door at the frustratingly reasonable time of 10:30AM, Dorian is tired and cranky but only barely hungover. When Bull holds out two cups of coffee and a couple of his famous bacon and egg sandwiches, Dorian nearly agrees to marry him on the spot. 

    

Instead, he takes the coffee, lets Bull in and goes looking for plates. When he turns back around Bull is sitting on the sofa, holding a pad of paper on his lap

    

“ _'Bull’s titties’,_ huh.” he says, and looks up at Dorian. 

    

It takes all of his self control not to set the pad of paper alight, but a crotch fire is a rather cruel way to treat someone who has brought you bacon and egg sandwiches _and_ offered to marry you.

    

Instead, Dorian snatches the list from Bull as politely as he can and throws it somewhere, anywhere that isn’t within eyeshot and starts eating his sandwich to give himself an excuse not to talk. Bull, Maker blass him, waits patiently for Dorian to make it through most of his sandwich and half his coffee before pressing the matter.

    

“Alright big guy, you got a decision for me?”

    

“Well, no.”

    

Bull chuckles, and pats Dorian on the knee. It’s familiar and warm and unexpectedly grounding, and something Dorian could get used to.

    

“I figured as much,” Bull says. “Krem called last night to tell me you were ‘all robes and no knickers ’ - I’m assuming that makes more sense in Tevene?”

    

Dorian scowls. “The little- he wants knickers? I’ll show him knickers, you just wait. More knickers than he knows what to do with.”

    

“Easy,” Bulls says, equal parts bemused and entertained, “I have no idea what you two are saying, but I’m into it.”

    

And _that_ is not something Dorian will be allowing himself to think about in too much detail thank you very much.

    

“Did that list get you anywhere?” Bulls asks.

    

Dorian sighs. “Not even slightly. There’s just too many factors to consider.”

    

“Well,” Bulls says, “Why don’t you start with what you want.”

    

_You._ Dorian doesn’t say.

    

“I want,” he says carefully, “to say yes.”

    

It’s the truth, but not a commitment.

    

“What’s stopping you from saying yes?”

    

“Is the fact that it’s ridiculous not enough?”

    

Bull laughs, “Define ridiculous.”

    

Dorian looks at him, unsure if Bull is being obtuse or just genuinely doesn’t get it. “We would be getting married just to keep me here.”

    

“And keep you out of Tevinter. Seems reasonable to me.”

    

He has a point. “But it’s so extreme. What about your love life!”

    

“I’ll be honest,” Bull says, “I’m not sure. At least not to start with. But we can talk about it. Find something that works for both of us.”

    

That, Dorian has to admit, is consistent with his experience of Bull. The man has flings left right and centre, and Dorian’s fairly sure most members of their little friend group have seen Bulls infamous cock - up to and including Sera, thanks to her lack of boundaries and Bull’s lack of modesty.

    

“You’ll be stuck with me,” Dorian says, mentally working through his list.

    

Bull shrugs, “I lived with Krem, Rocky, Skinner, Stitches, Dalish and Grim for two years - I can handle one rather pedantic Vint.”

    

Dorian follows Bull’s gaze around the room. While there’s still some detritus from the night before, it is, for the most part, in excellent shape. 

    

After a moment, Bull leans towards him, placing his hand over Dorian’s fist when it’s clenched on his thigh, “Listen to me,” he says, pausing until Dorian lifts his head and looks him in the eye.

    

“I’m not going to force this on you, but you have to understand you’re not forcing this on me either. You’re a good friend, Dorian. I like you. I _care_ about you.”

    

Dorian takes a moment to compose himself. The heat of Bull's hand on his own is radiating out across his leg and even with just the one eye, Bull is staring at him intently enough that he may start blushing if he isn’t careful.

    

“Well, since you put it so convincingly,” Dorian says, drawing it out as though the second or two it gains him will make this easier, “I suppose the answer is yes.”

    


	2. A Significant Commitment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back! Thank you so much to everyone who's commented and left kudos. It means so much that other folks are enjoying this story as much as I am. 
> 
> Thanks as always to spooner for reading this over for me and dragging my questionable first-draft-grammar into line.

It turns out that weddings, even fake ones, are a complete shitshow to organise on two week's notice. Dorian would have been perfectly happy with a brisk courthouse ceremony, but his friends informed him that there would be a wedding, with rings and music and vows and flowers and speeches.

Josephine and Leliana prove to be a team of almost terrifying efficiency, making decisions and dispatching Cullen on missions with all the precision of a military endeavor, leaving Dorian and Bull to hang around Josephine’s lounge room answering questions, or, more commonly, giving their approval for decisions that have already been made.

The Saturday before the wedding ( _his wedding. To Bull,_ Dorian has to keep reminding himself) Dorian is sitting on Josephine’s sofa, watching Leliana and Vivienne discuss ‘venue set-up’ while Josephine alternately berates and sweet-talks whoever it is on the other end of her phone.

“You know,” he says, “this doesn’t have to be a big deal. We’re not getting married for real.”

“We have been through this,” Leliana says, not looking up from her seating plan. “For one, the government will be less likely to question the legitimacy of the marriage.”

“And while the _motivation_ of the marriage may be a little unconventional,” Vivienne adds, “it is still a significant commitment, to both the Iron Bull and to your life here in Ferelden.”

“Consider it a welcome home party,” Josephine says, phone tucked against her shoulder.

Dorian frowns, “A welcome home party? I haven’t even left.”

“Exactly,” Leliana says, finally looking up, “Now look over this seating chart.”

\--

Monday morning Dorian and Bull (chaperoned by Josephine) acquire their wedding license. The waiting room at the courthouse is full of couples holding hands and staring moonily into each other’s eyes. 

Dorian begins to tense, aware of how much they stand out - and for once it has nothing to do with his accent or Bull’s horns. A moment later he feels Bull’s arm wrap around his shoulder. For a moment, Dorian only freezes up more, before realising what’s happening.

“What do you think they think I’m saying?” Bull murmurs into his ear, quiet enough that no one else can hear and close enough to seem intimate. “Probably something filthy.”

“ _Bull!_ ” Dorian hisses back, feeling his face flush.

Bull just chuckles, “Now, see with that blush they definitely think I’m talking about sucking you off.”

That is not at all a thought conducive to Dorian keeping his cool. He swats at Bull’s chest, but the action is as half-hearted as his scowl and he finds himself relieved for the continued weight of Bull’s arm and the warmth against his side.

As they approach the front of the queue, Josephine hands them each a neat clearfile with all their documents.

“Now remember, if they ask-”

“Yes boss,” Bull says, grinning, “we got it.”

“Of course, yes,” she replies, “you two are quite capable. I shall be waiting for you in the car.”

Moments after the door shuts behind her the queue moves forward and they find themselves in front of a middle-aged clerk called Doreen.

“One marriage license please,” Bull says, handing her his file.

Doreen looks at them for a moment, until Dorian catches on and hands over his own file, Bull tugging him a little closer to his chest for good measure.

“Well look at you two!” she says, fingers flying across her keyboard alarmingly fast, “Star crossed lovers - and so smitten with one another.”

“That we are,” Bull says, doing his one eyed wink at her.

She giggles, then gives Dorian a real wink, “You’re a lucky young man.”

Determined not to be out done, Dorian lays his hand on Bull’s chest, fingers on warm skin where Bull’s v-neck dips down criminally low.

“You don’t know the _half of it_ ,” he says, conspiratorially, leaning toward her, “does she, _darling_?”

If Bull’s thrown by Dorian’s shift from awkward to forward he doesn’t show it.

“Come on now, _sweet cheeks_ ,” Bull says, “Let this lovely woman do her job.”

They meet Josephine in the car five minutes later, marriage license in hand. She is, as has become her custom, on the phone.

“Leliana says she needs final confirmation of any guests,” she says.

“You got mine already,” Bull says.

“Dorian, what about you?” Josephine says, swiveling around in her seat, “any friends or family? It is a long way and on such short notice, but it would be good to have someone.”

“My _family_?” Dorian asks, “you mean the family I’m getting married to avoid?”

“Oh. Of course.” Josephine falters, but only for a moment, “Friends from home?”

Dorian shakes his head.

“Not even Felix?”

Well, Felix. Felix who is Dorian’s only remaining friend from Tevinter. Felix who was the only person in Tevinter who had cared for him for who he was. Felix who he hasn’t spoken to in about three weeks.

“Oh,” Dorian says, “shit.”

\-- 

They drop Dorian at his apartment, which is currently more boxes than furniture - all of his belongings packed away to be shifted to Bull’s place. Dorian’s lease is nearly up anyway, Bull has a spare room and if they want this whole “we’re married” thing to stick, living under one roof is only sensible.

Finding a place to sit down amongst the boxes, Dorian pulls out his phone, does a quick calculation on the time difference, and dials Felix’s number.

“Dorian!” Felix says when he answers. His voice is soft, but steady.

“Felix my dear, how are you?”

“Today?” Felix pauses, “Alright today. Last week was bad but today’s okay.”

Dorian feels a little less guilty for not calling earlier. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“What about you?” Felix asks, “Heard back about the visa yet?”

“Yes, actually. Declined.”

“Oh. Oh, Dorian, I’m so sorry.”

Dorian shifts awkwardly, “That’s why I’m calling actually. I have some news. You must promise not to be mad at me for not telling you sooner - it’s not what you think.”

“Okay?”

With a deep, steadying breath, Dorian says, “I’m getting married. On Saturday. To the Iron Bull.”

There’s silence, and then there’s Felix, laughing so hard that Dorian can hear him wheezing.

“Felix. _Felix_. Really. I can’t imagine what’s so funny.”

Felix takes a few deep breaths of his own. “It’s just-” he laughs again, “sorry Dorian, I just thought it would be something awful, but this? I mean finally!”

Dorian frowns. “What do you mean, _finally_.”

The last of Felix’s laughter stops abruptly. “Oh, nothing.”

“Come now Felix, don’t ‘oh nothing’ me, you know for a fact that’s never worked once.”

“I meant, you know,” Felix says, slowly, like he’s choosing his words with exquisite care, “that you’ve finally found a way to stay. I assume that’s why you’re marrying him.”

“Oh, right. Well, yes.”

“I’m so glad Dorian. And I like Bull.” Felix says.

“You’ve never even met him,” Dorian points out.

“I did! When I video called for your birthday, remember?”

He does. Varric had closed the bar for Dorian’s own private party. Bull had come to collect Dorian and Sera only to find them not yet ready: Dorian because he had been talking to Felix, and Sera because her particular brand of ‘hot mess’ took a surprisingly long time to apply.

“I know it’s not likely, given such short notice,” Dorian says, “and I won’t be disappointed if you can’t come, but I can’t not invite you to my wedding, no matter how fake.”

“You know I’d come if I could,” Felix says, in that resigned tone that always breaks Dorian’s heart a little, “but the flight’s so long and after last week...”

“You must look after yourself, you know I understand that.”

“I do.”

They talk a little longer, Dorian providing the more interesting details and hilarious highlights of last minute wedding preparation, and Felix’s replies slowly begin to fade and Dorian orders him to take a nap.

“Yes, _dad_ ,” Felix says, with a weak chuckle.

“Take care, Felix.”

“You too.” 

\--

By Wednesday Dorian’s place is packed entirely, leaving him without even a bed to sleep in. He ends up taking Josephine’s spare room while Bull finishes clearing out Dorian’s new room and his boys ferry Dorian’s stuff over. 

Herah joins them on that evening, a serene buffer to Josephine’s frantic coordinating. 

“You know,” Herah says, watching Josephine simultaneously converse with Leliana over the phone, email the baker and draft a speech, “she actually loves this. I’ve never seen her so satisfied as when she’s turning the improbable into reality.”

“Never?” Dorian asks in mock horror. “My dear if you are having that much trouble I’m sure Sera can give you some tips.”

Herah elbows him. “You little shit!”

“My love,” Josephine calls out, “I do not know what the subject is but I would encourage that you not take Sera’s advice. Ever.”

“See now, Sera was the one who told me to make a move on you,” Herah shoots back.

Josephine blushes. “Yes. Well. I mean- no, Leliana I am still here. Yes he is here as well... A wonderful idea.”

She pulls out a few sheets of paper from her folio, puts her phone on the table and brings the papers over to Dorian.

“We have drafted some vows for you. We looked into traditional vows, Ferelden, Orlesian and Tevinter but none seemed... appropriate for your situation. Please, read through these and make some notes.”

Dorian takes the draft. “It’s two pages long.”

“There are a few options. Select your favourite, or combine some, perhaps,” Josephine says, and returns to her phone.

Dorian drops the papers on Herah’s lap and goes digging in his bag for his favourite pen. It’s not there.

“Hey,” Dorian calls to the room at large, and Leliana too, if she can hear him, “Have you seen my pen? The nice one?”

“I have not,” Josephine says, “Maybe you have packed it?”

If so, he won’t be seeing it for a while. “Do you have one I could borrow?”

Josephine turns away, as if hiding something and when she turns back she’s pulled a small key out from... somewhere. She hands it to Dorian, “my writing desk.”

Dorian takes the key, a little confused and walks to the roll-top writing desk in the corner.

“You,” Dorian hears her say to Herah, “you stay put.”

It makes rather complete sense when Dorian rolls back the top. He has never in his life seen as many highlighters, sticky notes and pens in all his life, arranged in perfectly sized containers and colour order. There’s _two_ staplers. Dorian selects the most innocuous pen he can find, closes and locks the desk and hands the key back.

Josephine wanders away to restash her key and Dorian slumps back down on the couch with Herah and his vows.

She has been busy. There are traditional Tevinter vows, translated into common. Josephine’s done a mighty job of tweaking them to make the language more gender neutral, but Tevinter is nothing if not binary and the result is clunky. There’s Ferelden vows, some Orlesian, and another set Dorian guesses is translated Antivan. Josephine has helpfully highlighted sections that seem most appropriate.

It’s a long process, and Dorian makes more than a few phone calls to Varric, but by the time he heads to bed they have something workable.

\--

“No, absolutely not.” 

Thursday Dorian takes the afternoon off so that Josephine and Vivienne can take him to have his wedding clothes fitted. He’d expected to be offered a suit, but bless them both, they’d found maybe the only tailor in the city who both kept abreast of Tevinter fashion and was skilled in making traditional robes.

Dorian had been having rather a nice moment appreciating the high collar and exquisite embroidery when Krem of all people had wandered in and invited him along to “You and Bull’s joint bachelor party”.

“C’mon pretty pants, it’ll be fun. Lots of wine.”

“While I appreciate the appeal to my more hedonistic tendencies Cremisius, the answer is still no.”

“Why not?” Krem asks, with a taste of the same barbed caution Dorian had been subject to in the early days.

“Traditionally,” Dorian says, turning so the tailor can continue to pin, “a bachelor party is intended to take place in the absence of one’s fiance.”

“Yeah, because you and your qunari fiance are having such a traditional wedding.”

Dorian waves his hand in acknowledgement of a point well made.

“Even so, I believe Bull deserves a night out with the lot of you, alone. He’ll be seeing quite enough of me in the coming months.”

That and Dorian’s not entirely sure that a night of drunken fiance-playing is going to end well. Bull’s sure to be on fine innuendo form and Dorian’s not sure he can continue to keep up the faux disinterest in the face of all of it. 

They bicker a while longer, eventually devolving into Tevene until the tailor simultaneously throws chalk at Krem and stabs Dorian in the thigh with a pin. He berates them in equally perfect Tevene that leaves the both of them blushing in the realisation of a private conversation a not so private, and Krem slinks away. 

\--

Friday night comes and even if Dorian’s sensibility wasn’t a good enough reason to have avoided the party, his exhaustion is. Long days at work trying to catch up with what he’s missed, and evenings spent wedding planning and helping shift everything he owns from his flat to Bull’s house have him crawling gratefully into bed at nine o’clock. 

Exhausted though he may be, sleep takes its sweet time in coming, and Dorian is still wide awake at 9:43PM when there is a scratching at the window. Dorian stays perfectly still, holding his breath, listening. When the scratching repeats itself, too regular and too absent the sound of wind to be anything so innocuous as the tree, Dorian slides out of bed.

He leaves the light off, padding quietly across to the window, an illicit ball of lightning gathering in his palm. Body humming with magic that he absolutely should not be using, Dorian yanks back the curtain.

“Oh for the love of- _really?_ ” Dorian says, rolling his eyes and letting the lightning dissipate as he opens the window.

The Iron Bull is perched on a frighteningly narrow branch of the tree growing outside the guest room window, grinning. He is, despite the chilly night air, shirtless, has a sparkly pink tiara hanging from one horn, and a shit-eating grin on his face.

“Sorry big guy, didn’t mean to scare ya,” he says.

“Well in that case,” Dorian huffs, “I suggest you vacate the tree.”

“I’m not gonna fall.”

“I’m less worried about you than I am about the tree.”

The Iron Bull does not oblige entirely, but he does shift closer the the trunk of the tree, which does seem a little more equipped to handle his mass.

“What are you even doing here?” Dorian asks, “Aren’t you supposed to be at a bachelor party?”

“I snuck out.”

“Because...”

“Because I wanted to talk to you.”

Dorian hopes the streetlamp filtering through the tree isn’t enough to show the colour on his cheeks. 

“You could have called me,” he points out.

“Krem took my phone. Had to come in person.”

“And the reason you climbed a tree and scratched at my window rather than knock on the door?”

“Our lovely wedding planners appear to still be at it,” Bull says, almost sheepish.

There’s a level of logic in that. Dorian considers inviting Bull in through the window, but he’s not exactly sure the branch will handle it, not to mention the fact that Leliana’s ears will catch any conversation.

“One moment,” he says, dragging the curtain back across. Dorian pulls on some proper trousers, socks, boots and a coat, shoves his own cell phone in his back pocket and opens the curtain again. 

It really isn’t far from the window to the branch, and Dorian has plenty of experience sneaking out of bedrooms, but it has been at least a decade since the last time he tried this. 

He grabs hold of a slightly higher branch to balance with, clambers out onto the exterior windowsill and stretches one foot over to the branch Bull had been standing on. It creaks a little as he shifts his weight over, but given it has handled Bull’s weight, Dorian’s not too concerned, he reaches back over and tugs the window most of the way closed and twists back to face Bull, who is, if possible, grinning even wider than he had been before.

Bull climbs down first, Dorian following carefully after him. He manages well, until the drop from branch to ground. It had been barely a hop for Bull, but the ground seems a little further away than Dorian’s really comfortable with; he lowers himself as far as he can, and prepares to drop, trying not to think of what Josephine is going to say if he has to limp down the aisle. 

Before Dorian has a chance to let go, there’s a pair of large, warm hands wrapping around his waist and when he does let go he finds himself being lowered gently to the ground. He is all the way in Bull’s space and Maker he’s _warm_. 

Dorian doesn’t dare utter a thank you this close to the house, so he just smiles and drags Bull out of the garden and onto the street. Dorian drops Bull’s wrist, a little awkwardly, but can’t bring himself to step away. 

“You been drinking tonight?” Bull asks, gentle.

“Not really. Just the one glass.”

“Good,” Bull says, “me either.”

Dorian puts the back of his hand to Bull’s head (and he _doesn’t_ pay attention to the fact he has to stretch a little to reach, thank you very much). “Are you well? Not drinking _and_ escaping your own bachelor party.”

Bull chuckles, “Need to be sober if we’re gonna talk.”

Oh. Right. Talking. Delightful.

“What are we talking about exactly?” Dorian asks, stepping from foot to foot, partially in agitation, partially to try and keep them warm. Bull takes the cue and starts to walk, pulling Dorian along beside him. 

“About us,” he says after a few steps, “about our relationship. Making this work.”

“Ah.”

If Dorian had any idea where to begin, he would have said something, just to break the silence. If Bull is uncomfortable, he’s not giving any outward sign that Dorian can pick up.

“First, I guess, are you still in?” Bull asks after a moment.

“Still in?” Dorian echoes.

“Do you still want to do this?”

“Do I have much choice?”

At this, Bull does seem uncomfortable. His steps falter, almost stopping.

“Of course you do,” Bull says, softer than before, “If you don’t want this we’ll figure something else out. I’ll even break the news to the others.” He turns to look at Dorian and he’s _earnest_. _“_ I only want this if you do.”

The truth is, much as he might want Bull, Dorian _doesn’t_ want this. Not this way. He wants Bull for real. He could call it off now, and he knows Bull wouldn’t let anyone talk him out of it, not if he made the choice, but if he calls this off then he’ll need to start packing his bags, and it’s a little hard to try to start a relationship from Antiva. 

“I want this,” Dorian says. “I want to stay here, I want to be with the people I care about.”

The Iron Bull doesn’t say _‘good’_ or _‘I’m glad’_ , and Dorian understands why. He’s been on the receiving end of enough of Bull’s lectures about pressure and consent, but he does relax, and Dorian figures he made the right decision.

“In that case,” Bull says, “we better talk about how this is going to work.”

“In what way?” Dorian asks cautiously.

“Relationships, I guess. Ours, and with other people.”

“Our relationship is... good. I’m happy for it to continue as it is,” Dorian says, mind on the warm touches, the flirting.

“That works for me,” Bull says. “What about relationships with other people? Dating? Probably not a great idea to start with. Appearances and all that. But later. If we want to see other people. Or sleep with them. How do you feel about that?”

“You’re already disrupting your whole life for me,” Dorian says, ignoring how sour the words taste, “I have no right to stop you from... dating.”

“That’s not what I asked, big guy, I asked how you feel about it.”

“My feelings on the matter are rather irrelevant,” Dorian says.

Bull’s voice is harsher than Dorian expects, “No, they’re not.”

“I can’t force your decisions!”

“You won’t be, but unless you’re honest with me, _I_ can’t make my own decisions.”

Dorian has to admit that he has a point. Still.

“I don’t know how I feel about it.” 

Even that feels like overstepping, but Bull smiles.

“Fine by me, as long as you talk to me when you do know.”

Dorian nods his agreement, “was there anything else?”

Bull chuckles, “Plenty, given we’ll be living together. To start with, do you store mugs right way up, or upside down?”

\--

“I will never understand Southerners,” Dorian says, waving his spoonful of ice cream, to indicate the ice cream parlour they’re sitting in. “It is absolutely frigid out tonight and yet they’re serving ice cream!”

“You’re eating it,” Bull points out.

“Well, when in Denerim...”

“Your geography is terrible. I’m a little concerned.”

“It’s an idiom.” Dorian pops the spoon of red tea ice cream in his mouth, and it’s possible that he exaggerates his shiver a little.

Bulls sighs, but it’s fond, and he reaches across the booth seat to wrap one very warm arm around Dorian’s shoulders and tug him closer until he is tucked under his arm. Dorian freezes, this time not due to the ice cream, but Bull is close and friendly and he _is_ Dorian’s fiance (something they had absolutely exploited when paying for the sampling dish of fancy ice cream).

“Won’t your boys be missing you?” Dorian asks.

“Nah. Krem’ll be stroppy but Sera was pouring shots for the others when I left -- I doubt they’ve even noticed.”

“Sera’s at _your_ bachelor party?”

“S’not like she could go to yours.”

\--

Bull walks Dorian back to Josephine’s place maybe an hour later. It’s making for a later night than Dorian was hoping, but still within the bounds of reasonable, and if he’s being honest, despite the cold, he’s rather glad for the chance to spend time with Bull. Alone.

Dorian eyes the tree, but his fingers are chilled and climbing _up_ seems like a lot more effort than climbing _down_ , so he heads for the front door.

“Returning to your bachelor party?” Dorian asks.

“Yeah,” Bull says, “Someone’s got to roll them home.”

“Good night then,” Dorian says, hand on the door knob, “I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Bull grins, “that you will,” he says, before leaning down and pressing a quick, soft kiss on Dorian’s lips. It’s the chastest kiss Dorian’s had since the time he tried to kiss Mae and decided quite firmly that girls were not his thing.

“Sweet dreams,” Bull says, and walks away, whistling.

Dorian shakes his head and opens the door.

Leliana and Josephine spot him of course, but once they figure out he’s sneaking in, not out, they decide not to berate him. Josephine even offers to make him a cup of tea.

\--

Dorian’s wedding day dawns crisp and sunny and almost, dare he say it, warm. The house is already abuzz when he makes it downstairs for coffee, and in the absence of anything else to do, he makes breakfast. Little rounds of fried dough and spiced fruit.

Halfway through breakfast, Felix calls.

“Felix, what a delight!” Dorian says, his mouth only a little full of food.

“You’re rather chipper,” Felix replies.

“You sound surprised.”

“It’s your wedding day,” Felix points out, “I was expecting to have to talk you down from something overly dramatic and ineffective.”

Dorian feigns a huff, “I ought to be offended by that. As it is I’ll have to settle with indignation.”

“Because it’s a reasonable deduction?”

“Quite.”

“Where did this calm come from?” Felix asks, sounding pleased with himself.

“Well,” Dorian begins, before switching to Tevene. Both Leliana and Josephone speak the language passably well, but it gives him at least the sense of privacy. “ _We talked last night._ ”

Felix practically coos. “ _Do tell._ ”

“ _He uh, slipped away from his own bachelor party.”_ Dorian admits.

“ _And?_ ”

“ _And climbed a tree outside my bedroom window.”_

_“Then what?”_

_“Then we went for a rather brisk walk and talked about our relationship.”_

To Felix’s credit, the delight in his voice was only a little obvious. _“Dorian, scion of House Pavus, all grown up and talking about his feelings.”_

 _“Yes, well,”_ Dorian says, “ _It was sensible.”_

 _“That,”_ Felix says, after a rather undignified snort, “ _is even more outrageous._ ”

Leliana appears at Dorian’s side (and at this stage in their friendship Dorian would put equal money on her appearance being a result of stealth, or simply materialising out of thin air).

“You made breakfast?” she asks, raising one eyebrow just slightly.

“ _Hold on._ Yes, I did,” Dorian replies, tucking the phone against his shoulder, “have you eaten?”

“No. I have been busy preparing for the d-”

Dorian takes a leaf out Sera’s less than illustrious book and interrupts her mid-word to shove a forkful of breakfast into her mouth.

“I think that’s my cue,” he says, bringing the phone back to his ear.

“Enjoy yourself,” Felix says, fondly. “And send pictures. If you ask nicely I might even show them to your father in front of good company.”

“ _Care for yourself, my dear.”_

“ _And you.”_

\--

A little after 10 o’clock they pile into Josephine’s sensible car and make for Vivienne’s villa, just out of New Haven proper. The garden set up is already in progress, the chairs set out in front of a simple, rectangular arch draped tastefully in dark fabrics.

Dorian has been assigned his own dressing room, where Viviene is already lounging and sipping wine.

“Hello darling,” she says, rising just far enough to kiss his cheek and hand Dorian a glass of his own.

“Your home is exquisite,” he says.

“It is rather, isn’t it.”

Dorian takes a _small_ sip of wine. The ceremony is hours away yet but he’d rather not be responsible for The Iron Bull postponing it until he deemed Dorian sober enough to take part.

“Your robes are over there,” Vivienne says, gesturing to the covered hangers in the corner, “and I’ve picked out some gems you might wish to borrow.”

“Thank you my dear,” Dorian says. He’s brought the few nice pieces of jewelry he still owns, but most of what he left the Pavus home with had been sold in the effort of leaving Tevinter, and he had sold more still in his attempts to _stay_ out.

He’s brought his make up as well, and things for his hair. Dorian sets everything out on the dressing table and strips, swapping his clothes for a silky dressing gown. Vivienne doesn’t seem in the least bit concerned about this, but then again she is Orlesian.

“Your fiance’s quite the lucky one,” she comments, and Dorian’s preening before he can help himself.

“Yes, you’d rather think he’d want to take advantage of this,” Dorian says, waving at well, himself.

“Take advantage?” Vivienne replies, raising one perfect eyebrow. “Not at all. He is, like I said, a gentleman.”

“-When he wants to be,” Dorian finishes, “yes I remember.”

“Appreciation, now, that is something I think he’s rather capable of.”

Dorian finds himself going rather unexpectedly pink in the cheeks.

“Nervous?”

“Only to the extent that this is all entirely ridiculous.”

“Well then,” Vivienne says, rising from her seat and guiding Dorian to sit in front of the mirror, “let’s get distracted.”

\--

Dorian had thought, when Josephine had informed him that there would be four hours to get ready in, that that was rather excessive, even by his standards. Three separate attempts at styling his hair, seven visits from Cullen or Sera delivering messages, asking what he thought of napkins (or fetching the person originally sent to survey Dorian’s opinion of napkins), and one half-hour-long panic over the sudden appearance of a pimple in his eyebrow later, Dorian had to admit that she had timed things rather perfectly.

Vivienne has him turn in a full circle once more before judging Dorian ready. The robes are Tevinter style, but modern. Dark narrow trousers and a high collared black silk shirt, with equally inky robes over, covered in finely worked gold embroidery; all grand layers while still fitting tightly to his body. Dorian had added dark kohl to his eyes, and gold to just about everywhere else. 

The rings on his fingers are his own, but the fine gold chain stretching from eyebrow to ear is a gift from Vivienne.

The soft gasp from the doorway is all the notice Dorian has that Josephine has arrived

“Dorian you look, well-” Josephine cut herself off, “what I mean to say is-”

“What she means to say,” Sera says, wandering past her, “is that you look phwoar.”

“ _Phwoar?_ ”

“Yeah. Five sovereigns Bull grabs that twinky arse of yours before the ceremony’s over.”

“Excuse _me_ ,” Dorian says, “I am _not_ , nor have I ever been, a _‘twink’_. I am six foot tall and an accomplished altus! I have a _mustache!_ ”

Sera grins, “Yeah, I mean comparatively though.”

Dorian has to give her that.

“Sera?”

“Yeah twinkle toes?”

He takes a good look at what she’s wearing. It’s undeniably and obnoxiously tartan and yet-

“Are you wearing a _suit_?”

Sera rolls her eyes, grabs him by the hands and starts dragging him out of the room, “I’m your best man, yeah? Catch up!”

Vivienne follows them out to the garden door, slipping past to take her seat on the lawn with what must be fifty others. Dorian had assumed, upon seeing the seats set out when he arrived, that it would mostly be Bull’s friends filling them, but he’s yet to spot a face he doesn’t recognise. 

Bull’s horns are visible to the far right of the archway - but Dorian can’t see much more. 

“You’ll both be walking in, from each side and you’ll meet in the middle,” Josephine explains, leading him to the left of the crowd. Before Dorian can get a good look at Bull, his line of vision is blocked once again - this time by Herah, who tucks a flower into Josephine’s braids.

“Looking good,” she says to Dorian, with a grin, “Cassandra’s ready when you are.”

Cassandra, Dorian can see, standing at the archway in a dark purple suit.

“Looks like we’re all cleaning up rather well,” Dorian comments, and Herah chuckles.

“Wait ‘til you see that groom of yours,” she says, and steps out of the way. 

Bull isn’t standing that far away, but Dorian takes a moment nonetheless to make sure he’s actually seeing what he’s seeing. The Iron Bull is wearing a criminally tight white shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and equally tight grey pants that are cropped just high enough to show off the blindingly pink argyle socks he’s wearing. Socks that perfectly match his pink suspenders.

“We tried to find a suit jacket for him,” Josephine says, apologetically, “but, well...”

Dorian isn’t sure if the issue was in sourcing a jacket, or a reluctance to cover up the vision that is Bull in a tight white shirt, but Dorian doesn’t have it in him to care. Krem, who’s speaking to Bull notices Dorian’s stare and nudges him. Bull turns, gives Dorian a long, slow look up and down and blinks, hard.

“Did he just...” 

“Wink at you? Yeah twinkle, I think he did.”

Soft music begins to play and the guests begin settling into their seats.

Josephine reaches into Herah’s jacket and pulls out a ring box which she hands to Dorian, before kissing her girlfriend on the cheek and shooing her off to her seat.

“You gave her the ring?” Dorian asks.

She shrugs, “It’s shiny. You know it would have ended up there anyway.”

“Fair.”

“Now, Sera is walking you down - she knows the cues, so just follow her lead,” Josephine instructs him (again) while absent-mindedly straightening his robes, “You’ll meet in front of Cassandra and just need to follow her instructions from there-”

Dorian cuts her off “And after the ceremony we walk down the aisle together. I remember,” he kisses her on the cheek, “I promise not to mess it up, now sit down and enjoy your show.”

The music starts to pick up and the last murmurs from the guests falls away. Sera stands up as tall as she can and offers Dorian her arm. “Ready?”

“Not even slightly,” Dorian says, taking her arm. Sera grins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (in case you were wondering, yes I am channelling my chaotic virgo energy into Josephine)
> 
> Still trying to whip chapter four into shape, so the next update will probably be in three weeks (possibly earlier if I can pick up the pace!)


	3. Fluorescent Pink Knickers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't know how it took us three chapters to get to the fake marriage part of the fake marriage au but here we are. as a note i have updated the total chapter count to 12. it may go a bit higher than that, but 12 chapters (plus an epilogue, possibly) is what my outline suggests at the moment.
> 
> apologies for the slight delay in posting, i am yet again away on a work trip and there was just know what I was going to manage to get this sucker up last night.
> 
> thank you so, so much to everyone who's been leaving me comments! I've been struggling a little the last month to get the plot to play nice, and your feedback has inspired me so much and reminded me how much i love working on this dang thing.

As Sera walks him along the aisle, Dorian starts to regret having vetoed Josephine’s suggestion that he carry flowers. The slow walk toward Bull with nothing to do with his hands is rather awkward, but he takes solace in the fact that at most, only half of the guests are looking at him.

The Iron Bull and Krem meet them, just a step apart in front of Cassandra, and both best men drop back. Bull “winks” again as the music fades and Dorian snorts.

“Welcome,” Cassandra says, projecting her voice out through the garden. “We thank you for joining us in this important moment. The two men in front of me may come from very different places, but their relationship is a special one, and I am honored to be able to be the one to lead this ceremony.”

She opens a small leather bound book, “Firstly I must ask you both - do you enter into this ceremony, and indeed this relationship freely and willingly?”

The Iron Bull stares at Dorian, waits. Even now he’s checking, giving Dorian a chance to say no -- and that’s what does it. 

“Yes,” Dorian says, looking Bull dead in the eye even as he answers Cassandra, “I enter this freely and willingly.”

Bull smiles, “As do I.”

Cassandra instructs them to kneel and join hands, and Sera and Krem bring out two ribbons - one gold, one pink, and as they recite their vows, Cassandra wraps the ribbons around their joined hands and wrists - binding them.

Bull and Dorian recite their vows and Cassandra reads something surprisingly sappy about caring for one another and fate while Dorian’s hand gets unpleasantly warm and sweaty and Bull wiggles his eyebrows.

Finally, Cassandra pulls out the marriage contract, with both grooms’ signatures already neatly in place.

“Who wishes to witness this document?”

“Sounds like fun,” Herah says, rising from her seat and pulling Josephine along with her.

“I’m sorry,” Cassandra says, frowning and patting her pockets, “my pens seems to have, er,”

“I got it,” Herah says, before shooting Dorian a blinding grin and pulling _his pen_ out of her pocket.

“Oi!” Dorian hisses, and then sighs. Josephine mouths an apology as she takes the pen from Herah and then passes it along to Cassandra who adds the final signature to the paperwork. 

“Dorian Pavus, The Iron Bull, please rise as husbands, married in the eyes of the law, land, and those gathered here today.”

Their friends erupt into cheers as the two of them attempt to return to standing with their hands still bound. Dorian, of course, does so gracefully, and certainly does not stumble and fall into Bull’s broad chest. 

“How you doing?” Bull murmurs into his ear.

“Err, a little incredulous, to tell you the truth,” Dorian replies. In any other life, being surrounded by friends yelling congratulations and throwing what appears to be Sera-supplied and Josephine-un-approved glitter in their air while he stands, literally bound to _The Iron Bull_ who is now _his husband_ would be a dream (or at least the prequel to a rather elaborate fantasy).

“Need a breather?” 

“That would be nice-- what are you _doing!_ ”

Bull, in direct contradiction to the plan, lifts their joined hands into the air and twists Dorian around so his back is against Bull’s chest with his arms crossed in front of him, and then with Bull’s arms around his middle, Dorian’s being lifted into the air and carried away. Their friends’ cheers and whooping rises as they disappear from sight, and Dorian’s certain he hears Sera yelling “bone!” in amongst it all.

Bull carries Dorian back through the garden, and into the house. Dorian doesn’t know where they’re going, but Bull clearly does. They reach a closed door and there’s an awkward scuffle as he tries to open it (Dorian, despite himself, helps).

Once they’re inside, and Bull’s pushed the door closed behind them, he puts Dorian back on the ground and does the twirly thing again in reverse and then they’re back to standing face to face, hands tied together.

The ribbons have slipped loose a little on the way in, but they’re still tight enough that Dorian’s left standing _very_ close. 

“You doing okay, big guy?” Bull asks, and he looks genuinely curious.

“Better for being back on solid ground,” Dorian replies.

“Sorry about the method,” Bull says, grinning. “The ribbons make it tricky. Would have picked you up bridal-style if I could have.”

“No you would not!” Dorian says, and the emphatic tone to his voice is equal parts dignity and fear of his fantasies becoming a very public reality. Bull only shrugs in response, and Dorian distracts himself with picking at their ribbons. From memory, this is something the others were supposed to help with, but the others are all on the other side of a firmly closed door, and unimpressed as Dorian might be with his delivery to their current location, he does truly appreciate the privacy.

It takes some wriggling, and the awkward use of one bound hand to free another, but Dorian manages to get one hand free, and then both. In fit of pique, he gathers up the pile of gaudy ribbons and drapes them artfully over Bull’s horns. Bull, bugger it, decides they look rather fetching, and chooses to leave them on.

Bull doesn’t say much while they sit there, giving Dorian the space he’d so accurately assessed him as needing. He just sits quietly, with no awkwardness, seemingly caught up in his own thoughts.

Dorian, for his part, is attempting to internalise quite the complicated situation in his own head. Had he been truly marrying The Iron Bull, for romantic rather than bureaucratic reasons (which is, and he will not admit this even to Felix, something he has thought about on more than one occasion), he would have been having difficulty with the reality of it. Mix in the fact that it’s a _fake_ wedding, and he’s managed to somehow simultaneously _marry_ The Iron Bull and solidify their relationship as a _friendship_ and the cognitive dissonance is almost painful.

Not that The Iron Bull has ever let the definition of a relationship interfere with fun, which is something. This might not be how Dorian had envisaged beginning things, but there’s potential here.

* * *

Their guests allow them a rather impressive fifteen minutes alone. It’s not near enough time for Dorian to sort out how he feels, but it’s sufficient for folding said feelings into a small and harmless package and biffing it into a mental corner where it can’t cause any problems. 

There’s only Sera in the hallway when they emerge, and they follow her back to the garden which their friends have transformed into a reception space with tables and food and a dance floor and blessedly impressive quantities of wine.

Bull takes Dorian’s hand as they walk outside and lifts it up as though he’s announcing their victory (isn’t that a thought) and they’re met with yet another chorus of cheers. 

They’re rushed with friends and well wishers and end up separated. Dorian is quite within his element, moving through the social gathering with all the grace of a man bred and raised to the task. His glass -- once he acquires one -- is never empty, and his conversational partners never bored, as he moves through the garden talking to this group and that, joining a table here and a cluster of bodies there. 

It’s not intentional by any means, but he does find himself gravitating toward Bull. He doesn’t walk in that direction exactly, but Bull is always in Dorian’s periphery, and Dorian finds himself drifting vaguely in his direction whenever he wanders. 

The afternoon is delightful. Sunny and warm, with just enough canapés to allow Dorian to continue drinking without putting himself entirely on his arse, thought admittedly, by the time Josephine ushers him to his seat in preparation for dinner, he’s well past tipsy and making impressive progress through sloshed.

Bull’s arrival beside him is utterly welcome, large and comforting.

“How you doing, big guy?” he asks, and the chatter of the party is such that he doesn’t even need to pitch it that low to not be overheard.

“Quite well,” Dorian responds, giving in to his urge to lean in to Bull’s shoulder, “you?”

“It’s always fun being the centre of the party,” Bull says, and laughs. The movement jostles the ribbons that are still hanging from his horns. Dorian certainly isn’t going to be the one to remove them, but he does reach over to shift one back and out of where it had been dangling, blocking the view from Bull’s eye.

He gets a smile for that, and as Vivienne stands and draws everyone’s attention and they turn to look at her, one of Bulls arms finds itself draped over the back of Dorian’s chair and very nearly over Dorian himself.

“Thank you all so very much,” Vivienne says, voice echoing perfectly through the garden, “for joining us this evening. We have a delightful meal for you, but first, I do believe there are some speeches to be heard.”

Dorian freezes, searching his memory of the past two weeks. While he almost certainly made some quick fire decisions without entirely thinking them through, he’s quite certain he would have remembered agreeing to this.

“Did you know anything about this,” he hisses to Bull.

“No,” Bull says, shaking his head, “it’ll be alright though, it’s not as if we have any first-date-mishaps they can do a dramatic retelling of.”

He has a point. Wedding speeches tend to be awkward for either their sincerity, or their painfully bad delivery. They have no relationship to be sincere about, and surely after all the effort they’ve put into every other detail, Josephine and Leliana won’t have left this to chance. It’ll be fine. Possibly even enjoyable.

Sera stands up.

Dorian reaches across Bull and snatches another bottle of wine.

* * *

The speeches are not as bad as they could have been. Sera’s is entirely unauthorised, and Josephine looks fit to stop her, but Herah settles her down - better to let her vent her chaotic energy here while they know what she’s up to.

She doesn’t say the word ‘titties’ once, though Dorian’s sure it’s only so she can keep him in anticipation. Herah speaks after that, and it’s a sweet and genuine speech about how much she values the both of them -- tempered with just enough humour to keep it from sappy. Varric, master of prose, ends up reading a bloody limerick.

There’s a long moment of silence after the laughter in response to Varric’s poetry dies down, no one quite sure what will come next.

“Cole my dear,” Vivienne says, rising like a conductor, “you had something to share?”

Everybody looks at Cole, who looks at Dorian and Bull for a long moment, and then says, without standing, “I think it will be better to say it next time.”

Vivienne nods graciously, “in that case, my dear, I do believe dinner is served.”

The staff who have been in and out of Vivienne’s kitchen all day come streaming out with plates and dishes. It’s a feast, and an exquisite one at that. There’s some surprisingly delicious Ferelden food, and traditional Tevinter dishes, perfectly spiced. Orlesian fare that tastes like it was made in Val Royeaux, and even some items from Par Vollen that Dorian’s never heard of let alone tried before.

The food is divine and the wine keeps flowing and Dorian is both the centre of attention _and_ practically tucked against The Iron Bull’s side -- it’s a wonderful time. 

Until he starts thinking about it too much, and remembers that while he might be _married_ to Bull, he’s not actually with Bull. Thankfully, he’s thoroughly inebriated, and that alone does most of the work of keeping his mind occupied.

As the desserts start coming out, Bull cuts him off.

“Oi!” Dorian says, as Bull covers his glass with a hand and waves off the server who had been about to refill it.

“Sorry big guy, but I think you’ve had plenty.”

Dorian pouts. “Is this not my party at which I can drink if I want to?” he asks.

Bull snorts, “I think it’s ‘cry if I want to’, but actually, last I checked it was _our_ party, and if you keep drinking like that there won’t be any fun to be had later.”

Dorian gives himself a long moment to process that, to make sure he had heard what he heard. The Iron Bull is famously enthusiastic about enthusiastic consent, and you can’t be friends with the man for more than five minutes without being thoroughly informed of what counts as consent, and Dorian is well aware than being under the influence doesn’t qualify.

Had this been a real marriage he would have stayed off the booze in the first place -- or at least only had a few. It’s not a real marriage though, and Bull’s not given Dorian any sign that he’d be interested in anything more. Nothing beyond his usual excessive flirting.

Now that he thinks about it though, Bull hasn’t been drinking that much. Has he been thinking about this all along? Is he actually thinking about this? About _Dorian_ and _fun_ and _consent_?

By the time Dorian makes it far enough through that chain of thought to respond, he can tell he’s waited too long. The Iron Bull’s expression has shifted from playful to concerned. Dorian’s tempted to just ask him, to clear it all up.

Which is ridiculous of course. The very last thing he needs is for Bull to tell him he’s misunderstood the meaning. He’s quite genuinely the centre of attention right now and he’s not sure he’s sober enough to keep the disappointment off his face.

So, instead, he huffs, and turns to call the server back. Bull does not look impressed, but he doesn’t say anything, or try to stop him.

“My _husband_ ,” Dorian says, figuring he may as well get saying it for the first time out of the way while his inhibitions are pleasantly flexible, “thinks I’ve had enough. Would you fetch me some water? And an espresso?”

“Of course,” she says, nodding, and disappears.

“Happy now?” Dorian asks, turning to give Bull A Look.

“Much.”

* * *

The server comes back with water and coffee, and Dorian drinks them both, indulging in a few more Orlesian pastries also, with the excuse of soaking up just a little more alcohol. It wakes him up a little, and he knows it’ll be a while before he even starts to sober up for real, but he’s at least not getting any drunker.

Vivienne stands again and Dorian notices she has her staff with her, which is unusual. Mages in the South don’t use staves all that much. Admittedly they don’t use them all the time in Tevinter either, but there’s far more of a culture of performance with magic back home, far more flair. 

Orlesians are different, they either cast their spells as nonchalantly as possible, or with a level of theatre rivaling Tevinter. Here in Ferelden, Vivienne tends to err on the side of nonchalant, except for tonight apparently.

She twirls her staff expertly, sparkling lights gathering at the end as though it’s scooping the light out of the air, and with a final sharp flick, the lights fly off the end and hover in the sky above the lawn, bathing the dance floor with shifting, thrumming, coloured lights.

It’s beautiful, and Dorian can hear the music starting to rise up to follow the light. Sera whoops and runs out onto the dance floor, dragging Cole behind her, but Dorian’s only paying attention to Vivienne, staff still moving as she finishes adjusting her work.

He hasn’t done magic like that in years. He still casts a few spells, though he shouldn’t. They’re always small, cautious things, when there’s no chance of anyone seeing. He’s from Tevinter, and a single incident of unlicensed magic will kill his chances of a license permanently. 

“You okay?” Bull asks, nudging him gently. Whether he’s picked up on Dorian’s envy, or just his stillness is unclear. If Dorian continues to think about it, or Maker-forbid talk about it right now, he’s likely to get tearful, so he shakes it off and smiles at Bull.

“I’m simply wondering,” he says, “how on earth Sera hasn’t managed to drink herself under the table yet.”

“That’s a good question,” Bull says, watching the dancefloor. Josephine and Herah are out there now. “How long do you reckon it’ll be before they get Cullen out there?” he asks.

“Hmm,” Dorian says, “two songs at the most I’d say.”

There’s no first dance tonight. That, Dorian had put his foot down on. In part because all the formal dances Dorian knows, Bull does not, and there wasn’t the time to teach him, but also because more than anything else in this entire charade, faking a first dance seems wrong. 

That doesn’t, however, mean that they can’t dance at all, something Bull seems to be entirely aware of. He stands, and offers Dorian a hand.

“Wanna go have some fun?”

* * *

“So,” Varric says, joining Cassandra in leaning against the porch railing. They’re out of earshot of most people, but there’s a decent view of the dancefloor, “what do you know that I don’t?”

“I have no idea what you mean,” Cassandra says, firmly not looking at him.

“I _mean_ ,” Varric says, “you’re not the type to officiate a fake wedding.”

“I am a celebrant,” she replies, as though Varric’s slow, “and it is a real wedding.”

“Legal maybe, I’ll give you that, but not _real_.”

“They are my friends,” Cassandra says, folding her arms, “why wouldn’t I help them?”

“Because you’re a hopeless romantic.”

Cassandra finally turns to look at Varric, hitting him with a withering glare. “I am no such thing.”

“Oh no, _LadySeeker_ , I think you are.”

Cassandra’s eyes go wide and her expression cycles through confusion, panic, and fury in less than a second. 

“ _How do you know that?_ ” she hisses.

Varric takes a sip of his drink. “You really think I wouldn’t frequent my own fan forums?”

“I- you- it’s not-” Cassandra gives up on whatever she’s trying to say and takes a long steady breath.

“My point is,” Varric says, before she can get her argument together, “that you are the very _definition_ of a hopeless romantic. That’s why you became a celebrant in the first place, right?”

Cassandra’s only answer is to begin going rather pink in the cheeks.

“Why would such a believer in true love agree to marry two friends for the sole purpose of avoiding deportation?”

“I told you,” Cassandra says, “they are my friends.”

Varric shakes his head, “there’s plenty others who could have done it. Nah. It’s more than that. There’s more going on here - you _know_ something. What is it?”

In that moment Cassandra’s face changes. Her expression, which thus far had been fast approaching stricken, starts to shift, and within seconds she is looking entirely too pleased with herself. She smiles.

“This time,” she says, “you’re going to have to wait and find out, just like the rest of us.”

* * *

Dorian is spot on with his Cullen-dancing estimations. By the end of the second song he’s been dragged out onto the dancefloor. He’s stiff and self-conscious and awkward, but he’s also quite something under all that formality. Dorian’s sure he’d be quite something to behold if he were to let loose a little. Cullen also goes a delightful shade of pink if you flirt with him just right, and Dorian finds himself getting rather up close and personal. He’s not quite grinding up against Cullen, but he’s very close and very suggestive and Cullen goes _very_ pink. 

Sera whoops at him, and Dorian is reminded that he has an audience, and this is in fact, his wedding party. Bull won’t mind, he’s said as much, but it still feels... inconsiderate. He spies Bull over Cullen’s shoulder and he’s definitely aware. Watching the two of them with a look that’s awfully close to _want._

Dorian leans right in and gives Cullen a peck on the cheek, winks, and pulls himself away. 

He spends the rest of his time on the dancefloor shifting from the orbit of one friend to another. He dances with everyone, even Varric and Cassandra when they finally join in. Even _Vivienne_. He keeps it light and fun and clean, and lets himself move through the crowd. He isn’t sure if he’s trying to reach Bull, or avoid him, and letting chance make that decision for him seems the easiest.

He does make it to Bull eventually, but not until the last songs. The music is slower now, and it’s less of a dance and more of a sway with Bull’s arms around him. It’s far from risque, but it’s nice, and as the alcohol begins to work its way out of his system, Dorian’s starting to feel the wear of the day.

“How you doin?” Bull asks, “Ready for bed?”

Dorian doesn’t know what to make of that. He knows what he wants to make of that, certainly, but wishful thinking is for those who enjoy disappointment.

“Perhaps,” he replies, “but I do have an image to maintain. What would people say if Dorian, Scion of House Pavus, were the first to leave the party?”

Bull snorts in response. “In any other case you’d be right,” he says, “but I feel like this party plays a little different.”

“How so?” Dorian asks, as the final song fades out.

“I’ve heard our exit is almost as important as our entrance.”

Dorian’s not given much time to puzzle over what Bull means before his friends opt for a demonstration.

They’re staying at the villa tonight, Dorian knows that much. Dorian and Bull of course, and most of their closer friends, and he hadn’t thought much more of it. Dorian notices his friends starting to gather. They’re not doing anything, yet, but they’re hovering. Sera gives Bull the world’s most obvious wink, and for the second time that day, Dorian finds himself hoisted into the air.

“Ah!” is all he manages to get out. He wants to object, really should object because this is undignified, but he’s also being carried into the house bridal style by his very handsome, very muscular qunari _husband_. It’s going to end up on the front cover of one of Varric’s novels, he just knows it. 

Their friends follow them in, cheering. Dorian has heard of this, now that he thinks about it. Customs of friends escorting the new couple to their bedchamber. They’re supposed to throw flowers, or herbs, or something. Sera, of course, has put her own spin on things (though this time she’s rather prudently opted out of throwing glitter in Vivienne’s house) and tosses condoms at them.

Dorian shoots her a glare over Bull’s shoulder and she cackles.

The bedroom door is open, and wide enough for Bull to walk through without putting Dorian down. He does so and then turns. Everyone is standing there, grinning, and Dorian reaches out and slams the door - which is met with a chorus of cheers.

The Iron Bull deposits Dorian on the floor, rather than the bed, which is fortunate. Most of the condoms Sera had been throwing had glanced off of them and been left in the hallway, but a good handful had landed on Dorian where he was in Bull’s arms, and they tumble to the ground as he’s released.

Dorian stares at them for a long moment, and then starts laughing. It’s not deep, helpless belly laughter, but it’s enough to ease the tension, enough for Bull to relax out of the stiffness Dorian hadn’t noticed him develop.

“Sorry,” Bull says after a moment. He’s scratching his neck but he sounds more sheepish that guilty, “The carrying sounded fun, but I didn’t realise she’d throw those. You don’t have to, you know, read anything into it.”

Dorian shakes his head and crouches down to retrieve the condoms from the floor. He’s refusing to consider the packets’ future, bar the fact that left alone he’ll probably trip on them in the middle of the night.

“If I took heed of every time Sera threw a condom at me, I’d be in jail right now. For indecent exposure if nothing else.”

Bull snorts at that, and Dorian looks up.

“Not that I’d have any objection to heeding her at this moment,” he says. He’s definitely more sober now than he was a few hours ago, but Dorian’s never needed alcohol to push him into making a pass at a handsome man.

Bull doesn’t respond right away, and Dorian pulls himself to his feet, just to avoid waiting. He stands up just a little too quickly for his current state and then tilts, just a bit. Enough for Dorian to lose his balance, and enough for Bull to notice and put an arm out to stabilise him.

“I think what you need to heed right now is the bed,” he says, “sleep.”

Well. Dorian’s not surprised. Bull is notorious for his demands of sobriety. He’s frustrated, a little, at Bull’s earlier insistence he sober up. Had there not been the potential for ‘fun’ Dorian would’ve happily drunk himself under the table, and yes. Okay. Probably best he hasn’t, but nonetheless.

Dorian allows himself a sigh. Dramatic, but not petulant. 

“You’re sleeping in here also?” Dorian tries to make it a statement as he shrugs off his jacket, he really does, but he loses his nerve at the last word, letting it come out as a question.

“I’m happy to sleep elsewhere, if you want.”

Dorian rolls his eyes, “I don’t.”

He’s quite capable of sharing a bed without someone he hasn’t fucked - he and Sera seem to sleep most of their hangovers off together, and she’s hellish to share a bed with. Honestly, Dorian’s probably more accomplished at sharing bed with friends than his is with lovers (which is far too melancholy a thought to indulge in at this level of inebriation thank you). The horns might be interesting to navigate, but Bull’s only had him all his life, and if he can navigate the sort of sexual antics he’s fond of retelling without gouging anyone’s eye out, then surely he can manage sleep.

Bull seems content with that answer, and Dorian smiles. Bull might not want to have sex tonight, and Dorian won’t push, but there’s no reason not to give him something of a show. The robes he takes off carefully, and hangs up. It’s not exactly a sexy endeavour, but the robes are exquisite and deserve to be treated as such.

After that though, his shirt comes off easy, and while pants are always a little harder to get off in a dignified manner, Dorian is a man who knows what he’s doing. He keeps the whole thing just shy of a performance, intentional enough that Bull will be paying close attention, subtle enough he can claim plausible deniability.

Bull is, of course, watching. He seems to catch himself to begin with, and turn away, but Dorian gives him a look, and a smile, and a shrug, and continues. When he’s down to his underwear, Dorian pauses. Stripping entirely naked would likely constitute labouring the point.

Finishing with a wink, Dorian walks over to the dressing table to start removing his jewelry, carefully setting aside Vivienne’s pieces next to his own. He can hear Bull moving around behind him, undressing himself by the sounds of it.

When Dorian stands to go through to the ensuite and wash his face, Bull is already shirtless - not a rare sight. When Dorian returns from the bathroom, face cleaned and teeth brushed, Bull is without pants either. He’s kept his boxers on also, but Dorian finds himself gaping nonetheless.

“They’re...” he can’t quite find the words he needs.

“Great?” Bull asks, grinning.

“ _Pink_.” 

Dorian has nothing against pink, whatsoever. He doesn’t wear it often himself, it’s not really in line with his style, but he’s a man of fine taste, he can appreciate a good pink. No, it’s the shade of pink that does it. It’s the sort that looks like it should be luminescent.

“Have you been wearing those all day?”

“Sure have,” Bull says, and wiggles a foot at him, “they match my socks.”

Which, Dorian notes, he’s still wearing.

“I married a man in fluorescent pink knickers.”

“Yep,” Bull says, popping the ‘p’ and sounding entirely too pleased with himself.

That’s something, really. You don’t look that proud of your devious plan to offend someone’s underwear sensitivities unless you intend to show them off.

Dorian considers insulting them, for a moment. He nearly does, the instinct is so intense, but Bull has that twinkle in his eye that means he has an entire list of puns lined up and Dorian might be willing to indulge the knickers, but not that.

Instead, he flounces (and yes, he’s still just drunk enough to admit that to himself) over to the other side of the bed. Like everything else in Vivienne’s villa, it’s both luxurious and tasteful. Dorian will happily admit he’s a snob when it comes to linens, but he’s a snob on a budget, and he hasn’t slept on sheets of this caliber since he left Tevinter. 

He slides under the covers, sighing happily. It’s almost better than sex. Well, no, it’s not at all, but it is nice enough he’s willing to pretend.

Dorian doesn’t realise his eyes are shut until Bull coughs and he reopens them.

“Should I leave you two alone?” Bull says, eyebrow raised.

“Excuse me?”

“You and the bed seem to be having a moment.”

Dorian rolls his eyes, “I’m enjoying the luxury you fool. Get in.”

“Never have to ask me twice.”

Is he doing it on purpose? Dorian wonders. Or is it simply his way of communicating, like Sera’s inability to get through a sentence without cussing or using a made up word instead of a real one?

Bull gets into the bed though, and Dorian can tell he's being carefully with his horns. He sits, propped against the head board and pulls the sheets up to his waist.

“Okay, you’re right on this one, these are pretty good sheets.”

“Lesson number one of being married to Dorian Pavus, he’s right on _all of them_.”

“All, huh? That sounds like a challenge to me.”

“It’s only a challenge if you have a chance of winning,” Dorian points out.

“I think I’ve got a pretty good chance of coming out on top.”

He must be doing it on purpose. There is no other explanation. Dorian’s cock certainly seems to think so.

Bull takes that moment to click off the bedside lamp and lay down. The horns mean he’s flat on his back, which does make things a tad less awkward. Dorian clicks his own lamp off though. Just to be certain.

The pillows have been pulled far enough down the bed that there’s room for Bull’s horns between them and the headboard, and enough that they’re not in Dorian’s way. He ends up lying on his back too. It’s not an ideal position for hiding his condition, but turning toward Bull seems far too forward, and turning away seems rude.

“How you doing?” Bull asks, after a moment.

The first word through Dorian’s head is “aroused”, but thankfully the first word through Dorian’s _mouth_ is “whelmed.”

“Over or under?”

“Neither, just whelmed.”

“Huh,” Bull says, “is that a thing?”

Dorian does turn a little toward him at that. “Of course it is. Surely. How can you be overwhelmed and underwhelmed if you can’t be whelmed.”

Bull chuckles, “see now, it doesn’t sound like a word at all now, you said it too much.”

“Well, it _is_ a word,” Dorian say, flopping back down onto his back. “It certainly is in Tevene. Though with Southerners, who knows.”

“You have a point.”

“Of course I do. About what?”

The shadow of Bull’s hand waves vaguely, “Southerners.”

Oh. “You know, I forget that sometimes,” Dorian says, “that you’re not one of them.”

“Because we’re all so uncivilised?” There’s no bite to the words, but they cow Dorian all the same. 

It’s a defence mechanism more than anything. For all the disapproval it brings, there’s a power to playing into the Snobby Vint stereotype people expect. He’s made efforts to curb the instinct, now that he has friends he needn’t defend himself from.

“Because you belong,” Dorian settles on. While he does sometimes think of them as uncivilised, it’s not the way they think. It’s the way no one here backs their car into a parking space (well, except Bull), and how nobody seems to know how to queue (except Bull, again), and how people insist on turning up on time to parties ( _including_ Bull). 

“Here as much as home I guess,” Bull says, and there’s an ache to his voice that Dorian can recognise. 

“Here is home,” Dorian says, as much to himself as to Bull.

“You should go to sleep before you get all maudlin on me,” Bull says. He’s right. 

“I suppose so.”

It’s not uncomfortable falling asleep next to Bull so much as it is awkward. Dorian can share a bed easily enough with Sera without snuggling her (unintentionally at least), but the woman is all bones and blessed with an excessive number of elbows. Bull is muscular, soft, warm. Dorian’s conscious self is committed to not making a total fool of himself. His unconscious self is far less trustworthy, and Dorian is reluctant to leave him in charge. 

The bed is soft, though, and comfortable. The day was long and for all Dorian is trying to keep a respectful distance, Bull is close, and his breathing an easy rhythm. Dorian sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ten points to anyone who spotted references in this chapter! 
> 
> I'm being optimistic about my chances of getting ahead in the near future, so it should only be two weeks until the next chapter goes up!


	4. Honey Sunday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience with me. The entire world is in chaos and we're all struggling, so I hope this serves as a pleasant distraction!
> 
> Just as a heads up right at the end there's some vague discussion of Tevinter Homophobia And Its Impact On Dorian, feel free to skim past that if you need to.

Their friends, blessedly, allow them to sleep in the next morning. Whether that’s due to consideration or their own hangovers is up for debate, but either way the result is the same. 

Dorian’s own hangover is respectable, if mild -- thanks, no doubt, to Bull’s fussing the night before. 

While no stranger to waking up in a bed with someone else, it’s far from Dorian’s normal. His experiences are mostly limited to waking up with Sera (and on one peculiar occasion, Cassandra) with a heavy hangover, or on the very odd occasion with a one night stand (typically also hungover). In either situation, there is a level of clarity and purpose; toilet, coffee, or an escape route. 

This is something else. 

_ If they had fucked, _ Dorian’s brain unhelpfully supplies,  _ what to do right now would be abundantly clear _ . 

Which is true. Dorian might not know what he  _ should  _ be doing, but he knows exactly what he would  _ like _ to be doing in this moment. In this fancy bed.

Bull is still in the same position he was in the night before: flat on his back, horns carefully positioned so as not to do any damage. Dorian has tossed and turned the entire night, blankets a tangle. He has vague memories of seeking out the warmth in the bed. Vague enough that if he puts some effort into it, he can convince himself they’re dreams.

Comfortable as he is, Dorian does need to pee, and he knows that once he gets up the need to seek out strong coffee will likely overtake him. He sits up carefully, so as not to trigger any unexpected nausea. 

There’s light coming in through curtains they didn’t think to close the night before. Not enough to make Dorian’s head hurt, but enough to illuminate Bull’s bare chest in a way that is, frankly, unfair. The Iron Bull is not ‘ripped’ but he is muscular, and large. Strong.

“ _ Titties, _ ” Dorian finds himself saying, and okay maybe he’s not as entirely over last night’s drinking as he thought he was.

“From the list?” Bull says, eye opening. It’s not the groggy sound of someone just waking.

“How long have you been awake?” Dorian demands, unsuccessful in his attempt to keep the indignation out of his voice.

“Longer than you,” Bull says, “light sleeper.”

There’s something more to that sentence than what Dorian’s able to parse out right in this moment. Something that will have to wait until later to resolve, when he has more of his cognition online and less bare chest distracting him.

“Titties?” Bull prompts, sounding more amused than anything.

“So Sera insists,” Dorian says, giving Bull’s chest a gentle poke, “I argued that they are in fact pectoral muscles, but she appears to have won.”

Bull chuckles. “I can live with that.”

* * *

The smoothness of the wedding day is followed by an absolute clusterfuck of a day after. If Dorian didn’t know better he would suspect someone had fiddled their luck (as it is, Josephine is far too careful to take that risk). Their luck does, at least, hold out until  _ after  _ Dorian and Bull make it out to the kitchen and acquire coffee. 

Vivienne is sitting at the breakfast bar when they come in. She’s wearing an exquisite pale blue robe that Dorian would quite like to fawn over, and while she is bare faced, she looks perfectly put together, despite having headed to bed after them. 

“I’m certain I saw you imbibing last night darling,” Dorian says, “How are you so...” he trails off, waving his hand in her general direction. 

“Hangovers are uncouth,” she says, as though that’s the secret to it. Simply deciding not to have one. If anyone were to be capable of it, it would be Madame De Fer. 

Dorian takes a seat next to her at the breakfast bar while Bull moves into the kitchen proper to pour them each a cup of hot, fragrant coffee. There’s an array of breakfast foods laid out on the counter. Fresh fruit, spiced porridge, bacon, pastries. It would be enough to make Dorian’s mouth water were it not for the edge of nausea rolling in his stomach.

He reaches over and snags a piece of toast to nibble on instead.

The house is peaceful. Dorian can hear a few people moving in some of the many bedrooms, the sound of a shower running down the hall.

The peace lasts five bites into Dorian’s toast.

The chaos starts with an extended and distant swearing. It’s too far away and through too many walls for Dorian to parse out what’s being said, but it’s clear that whoever it is, and who (or what) ever they’re swearing at is  _ not _ something anyone would want to be in the middle of.

He doesn’t expect it to be Josephine.

She stumbles into the kitchen a few moments later, and despite the many nights Dorian’s spent at her house, he’s never seen her in quite such a state. Josephine is holding a fluffy pink robe around herself (and yes, Dorian does see Bull making eyes at it thank-you-very-much). Her hair is loose and half wet, one side dripping and plastered to her face, the other both staticky-damp, soap suds stuck to her eyebrow. There’s a frantic look in her eyes that Dorian’s not quite sure what to do with.

Bull hands her his cup of coffee.

“Vivienne,” Josephine says, after a long, steadying sip, “is there any reason that your hot water would run out very suddenly?”

“No,” Vivienne says, frowning, “it’s electric, there should be an infinite supply.”

It’s in that moment that Dorian notices the fridge no longer humming. There were no lights on in the room to begin with, the day too bright and the villa’s windows too wide to need them. When he looks for something, anything - the digital clock on the oven, the little orange ready light on the espresso machine - there’s nothing.

“Vivienne,” Dorian says, “is there any reason for your power to be out?”

* * *

They will all agree later on, that if the power did have to go out, it had picked a rather considerate time to do so. Josephine’s interrupted shower notwithstanding, there had been very little harm done - initially at least. Half the guests were still asleep, there was enough coffee to go around those who were awake, the weather outside was mild.

Josephine checks the news coverage on her phone (diligently plugged in to charge the night before, of course) and can find no sign of a widespread power outage. 

“It must just be the villa,” she says, wiping a few drips of rogue water off the screen with her robe. “Where’s the fuse box?”

The fusebox is tucked away inside a cupboard in the hallway so unobtrusive that Dorian walked right past it initially. They successfully talk Josephine out of looking at it herself -- at least until she dries off (and the fact she hasn’t made moves to do so yet is a little disconcerting). Bull is next in line, but the space is too small for him to fit into easily. 

He gives Dorian a heavy pat on the shoulder and pushes him in. Dorian stumbles, rights himself, and lifts his chin. He is an accomplished mage with a zero-error endorsement on his final lightning evaluation. He is certainly more than a match for a simple fusebox. 

It’s not a  _ dramatic _ error. That would almost have been better, actually. Dorian starts no accidental fires, conjures no sparks. Nothing actually happens at all. None of the switches seem out of place, so he resets them all. 

“Have any of the RCDs been tripped?” Bull asks.

Dorian glares. “If I knew that do you really think I would still be standing here?”

“Honestly?” Bulls says, shaking his head. “what do you usually do when the power goes out?”

“I call Cremisius,” Dorian says, haughtily.

“I’m wounded,” Bull says, hand to his chest in mock horror.

“Krem stayed last night didn’t he?” Dorian asks, ignoring Bull and looking over his shoulder at Josephine.

“He did yes, uh-”

“I would advise  _ against _ waking Mr Aclassi at this stage,” Vivienne says, “he may be somewhat indisposed.” 

Bull looks impressed. 

“Okay big guy,” he says, turning back to Dorian, “Krem’s indisposed. Who’s next one your list?”

He casts around mentally scanning their guest list for someone competent, sensible, and reasonably likely to be functional the morning after a wedding. 

“Cassandra.”

* * *

Fetching Cassandra means interrupting Cassandra’s morning meditation, something Dorian would have avoided entirely given the chance. She’s only a touch more grumpy than usual, thankfully, and just as competent with household electrical systems as she is with every other thing Dorian’s seen her attempt.

She and Bull stand by the fusebox (Cassandra in the closet, Bull outside of it, and isn’t that a sight), throwing enough jargon back and forth that Dorian tunes out entirely, waiting for someone to tell him that they’ve figured it out.

“The hardware store should be open by the time you get back into town,” Josephine says, scrolling through her phone. Her voice drawsDorian’s attention back to the conversation.

Cassandra is the obvious choice to go, in part because she’s the only one who knows exactly what she needs, and in part because the rest of them are still half dressed or half drunk. Cassandra’s car, however, has been parked in by the rental van they’d used to bring all the wedding supplies out.

“I’ll get Cullen to move it,” Josephine says, starting to sound a little more like herself.

Which would have worked perfectly, if he had the keys.

* * *

“I don’t understand!” Cullen says, tugging at his hair so hard Dorian’s afraid he might just pull it out. He’d been awake when Josephine had gone to find him, but not up, and when his frantic search of the guest room he’d been sleeping in had failed to turn up the van keys, he’d moved on to search the rest of the house without pausing to put on a shirt.

(Not that Dorian’s complaining.) 

“I don’t know what’s more charming,” Dorian says, before taking a sip of his coffee and handing the mug back to Bull, who is standing next to him, leaning against the kitchen counter as they watch Cullen toss the room in search of the keys, “the puppy dog sincerity or that fact that’s genuinely unaware of how attractive he is.”

Bull snorts. “Would you...?”

“Cullen? Undoubtedly. Would you?”

The Iron Bull finishes his mouthful of coffee, hands the mug back to Dorian, and grins.

“That implies I haven’t already.”

Cullen (and Dorian doesn’t know whether to curse or bless him for this) chooses this exact moment to bend himself over the arm of the couch in an attempt to dig under the cushions, and Dorian’s intent to keep the rest of the coffee to himself becomes null and void as what’s left goes splashing onto the floor.

By the time Dorian finishes mopping up his spill, they’re no closer to finding the keys than Dorian is to deciding whether he’s outraged or intrigued.

He takes the damp tea towel into the hall in search of a hamper to toss it into and finds Josephine instead.The soap suds, by this stage, are gone from her face, whether from intentional removal or simply evaporation, Dorian isn’t sure, though the continued presence of the fluffy robe and half-washed hair are starting to concern him.

“Honestly,” Dorian says, “you’re the one dating a magpie, ask Herah. Even if she doesn’t have the damn keys I’m sure she’ll be able to find them. Where is she anyway? I know she likes to sleep in, but even Varric’s awake now.”

“I don’t know,” Josephine says, stopping short. “She came to bed last night but she was gone when I got up. Haven’t you seen her?”

Misplacing keys is understandable, commonplace even, something they can all comprehend. How they have collectively managed to misplace seven feet of horned lesbian? Dorian will never understand. 

Herah is of course, entirely capable of looking after herself, and the fact she’d made it to bed the night before does at least rule out a drunken accident (probably), but for all the panic the keys have caused, it’s this that snaps the last threads of Josephine’s composure.

Consideration for hangovers and modesty goes flying off in approximately the same direction as the missing keys as they begin turning Vivienne’s lovely villa upside down -- first attempting to locate Herah, and then (once it becomes clear that she is not, in fact, anywhere in the building) to establish who else is missing.

Dorian is lucky enough to witness one caterer, one violinist, and one Dalish come filing out of Krem’s room, followed by Krem himself. Vivienne looks smug, Bull looks proud, and Cullen simply goes very, very red. 

Varric, Leliana and all remaining Chargers are accounted for. Cole is absent, but not conspicuously so, and Leliana sleepily confirms that all other guests and staff had left the property the night before (Krem’s present company excluded). 

“Sera!” Dorian says, “has anyone seen Sera?”

The silence is uncomfortable.

“I don’t know if I should be more worried or less?” Josephine says. 

Dorian shrugs. “Both, probably.”

House already well searched, there’s really nowhere else to look but outside. Something Vivienne’s villa has rather a lot of.

* * *

Dorian takes the back, past the immediate garden where they’d held the wedding. 

“Sera?” Dorian calls out. Loudly, but not yelling, quite. It seems rather unnecessary. He can hear the others wandering in their own directions. Nothing closer. He isn’t sure what he’s looking for. He’s certainly found Sera in enough odd places, but that doesn’t really give him much to work with. 

A seed pod drops from the tree above onto his shoulder, startling him. 

“ _ Kaffas _ ,” Dorian mutters, “I thought the whole point of these bloody Orlesian gardens was that they behaved themselves.”

The second seedpod glances off the side of his ear. The third is a twig. Dorian looks up just in time for the fourth to hit him right between the eyes. 

“Krem,” he calls out, sighing “be a dear and find me a ladder.”

Above him, Sera cackles. 

* * *

“Why didn’t you just say something?” Dorian asks, pinching at the bridge of his nose (and only partially because of the twig that had smacked into it).

“You would have dodged.”

Dorian gives up on her and turns his gaze on Herah. “Why didn’t  _ you _ say something?”

Herah just shrugs and gestures in Sera’s direction, as though that explains everything (which, to be fair, it almost does). 

Cassandra arrives ahead of Krem, as does Josephine. 

“Well,” Cassandra says, looking at the alarming quantity of string lights that Sera has tangled around herself (and the tree, and Herah), “that would explain the power outage.”

“What are you _ doing _ up there?” Josephine asks, equal parts relieved, perplexed, and resignedly exasperated. 

“She wants to be a constellation,” Herah supplies, “I think. I’m translating here.”

“I’m one of those sparkly sky things that means shit!” Sera elaborates. It doesn’t clarify why she’s in the damn tree, but it does confirm that she’s still drunk. 

Bull and Krem arrive with the ladder moments later. It takes all of them to disentangle their new ‘constellation’ from the tree. Quite how Sera’s managed to get the two of them as tangled as she has without falling out is anyone’s guess, but they end up having to cut some of the wires ( _ after _ disconnecting them from the mains power) in order to get the two of them down.

Josephine pulls Herah into a hug as soon as her feet are on the ground, managing to do a rather impressive job of crushing her qunari girlfriend against her chest, before pulling back and looking at her dead in the eye.

“I love you, and I am so very glad you are safe and I’m not even mad that you disappeared on me in the middle of the night,” Josephine says, “but I really do need the van keys.”

“Doesn’t Cullen have them?”

* * *

Cullen, still, does not have them. 

In the end Leliana has to do something rather creative with the ignition while Bull distracts Josephine. 

“Does she know you can do this?” Dorian asks, leaning on the open van door, for the purposes of both gossip and blocking her from view.

“She elects not to,” Leliana says, “though I believe she would be more concerned with the violation of the rental conditions.”

The engine comes to life and Leliana sits back, satisfied. 

“Given that ‘not losing the keys’ is a part of the rental conditions,” Dorian says, “I do rather think that ship has sailed.”

“We have until this evening,” Leliana says with a shrug, “I am certain the key will be found, but perhaps not quick enough for those of us in need of showers.”

Van running, they’re able to move it out of the way and allow Cassandra to leave for the hardware store (and coffee shop).

* * *

After the morning they’ve had, it’s unsurprising that tempers are short. They are all (with the exception of Sera) too wired to drift back off to sleep, but no power means no coffee, and the breakfast spread that had looked so enticing when Dorian first encountered it has languished in the time they’ve been searching for keys and absentees. That which was intended to be warm has cooled, and that which was intended to be cool has warmed - averaging out into an unappetising lukewarm. 

Hungry. Cranky. Tired. 

Dorian and Bull end up on one of the couches in Vivienne’s sun room while she lounges beside them. Josephine attempts to regain some sense of control - fussing and packing so loudly that Dorian almost feels the need to get up and help.

It takes Cassandra an hour to return, and another half hour after that to reinstate the power. When she does, there is a mad rush for the showers.

At some point Dorian finds himself shifting over on the couch so as to make room for someone, and a little after that Bull does the same thing. Within the hour Dorian is about as close to Bull as he can get without actually being in his lap.

Dorian doesn’t realise quite how it looks until Sera, risen from her slumber, wolf whistles at them. Dorian shoots her a threatening glare, but Bull just does his ridiculous faux wink and yawns, stretching his arms overhead, before allowing one arm to fall down and over Dorian’s shoulder.

“Maker help me,” Dorian says, head in hands, “I’ve married a living, breathing cliche.”

* * *

They’d never planned on anything resembling a honeymoon. Between Dorian’s unwillingness to let his friends spend any more on this ridiculousness than they already had, his own lack of funds, and the fact that neither he nor Bull would be able to get time off work at such short notice, they’d had to rule it out.

(That and the fact a fake honeymoon with the man you’re  _ not _ in love with and  _ not _ very attracted to promised to be somehow even more frustrating and awkward to fake marrying said man.)

So, no honeymoon. That had been clear. Dorian had, however, been expecting at the very least a Honey Sunday. He had envisaged a somewhat hungover morning, brunch and plenty of good-natured ribbing from his friends, followed by a return to his new abode and a relaxed rest of day, unpacking his new room and calling Felix.

It was around the time he had been winding up Sera’s misappropriated string lights that Dorian had realised that his expected Sunday had been a write-off. By the time the finally-found van key had somehow fallen into Vivienne’s garbage disposal he’d given up on hoping for anything other than the ability to climb into his bed at a reasonable hour and sleep.

When Dorian and Bull make it through the front door by 7:13PM, he’s actually starting to think he might manage it. 

“Pasta?” Bull asks as they shut the door behind them.

“Yes. Please.” Dorian says. He’s in no mood to cook and the thought of takeout -- of having to make a decision -- is beyond him right now. Pasta is more than good. “I’ll go put my things away.”

Dorian’s plenty familiar with Bull’s house. It’s not a big house by any means, but it’s larger than Dorian’s one-bedroom apartment had been, with a practical layout that meant they often ended up here for gatherings. He’s even spent the night in the spare room -- now his room -- on occasions where he’s had too much to drink or simply passed out.

He has not, however, seen the room with his things in it. His belongings, those that aren’t stacked in Bull’s shed, had been moved over on Friday while Dorian had been ensconced in Josephine’s guest room. 

“Well,” Dorian says after letting himself into his new room, “at least we’re going for consistency.”

His boxes of things are piled in one corner -- as expected. The few pieces of furniture he’d asked to be moved in are in place, still covered in protective wrap -- again, expected. Less expected is his bed, or rather, lack thereof.

the pieces of his disassembled bedframe are laid out neatly in the centre of the room, the mattress missing entirely. 

He’s angry, at first. At Krem and the other Chargers who had so easily promised that all would be well and ready. At the fact that after all of the upheaval of the past two weeks, and the shitshow of a day they’ve all had, he can’t even climb into bed and ignore the world.

He knows it’s petty. Knows that the Chargers have had more than enough to do between moving everything Dorian owns  _ and _ setting up for the bloody wedding -- on top of their own work schedules nonetheless. Knows that they had probably planned to come and finish this off today, before it all went off the rails. Knows that they have figured out the solutions to far more complicated problems today alone, and that he won’t be sleeping on the floor.

He’s still pissed though.

He drops his bags on the floor, turns on his heel and goes looking for Bull’s liquor cabinet.

* * *

Dorian loves to be brought drinks. Maybe it’s his Tevinter breeding, or maybe it’s just nice to be pampered, but Dorian is of the firm opinion that alcohol is best imbibed when someone else pours it and brings it to you. It’s selfish, certainly, but for the most part Dorian will wait until someone is already fetching, and makes sure to pour all the drinks when he has guests of his own. It’s a harmless indulgence.

Given this, Dorian has done far more drinking in Bull’s house than he has done pouring. He knows where the liquor cabinet is, of course, but he’s never seen inside it. He tends also to bring his own alcoholic offering to whatever gathering he attends, so he’s not entirely sure if his satisfaction here is the result of good stock or good contributions.

Never matter. A fine Orlesian wine, or Antivan brandy would be nice, but he’s willing to lower his standards quite considerably. There is some nice wine, unopened. Nice enough that Dorian doesn’t quite have the confidence to open it himself. There’s also spirits, so Dorian pours himself a generous glass and heads for the kitchen.

Bull is happily moving through the kitchen. Dorian thinks he might actually be humming to himself, quietly, but it’s hard to tell over the sounds of water boiling and garlic frying. When he turns and looks at Dorian, at the glass in his hand, one eyebrow lifts. 

“Last night not enough for you?”

Dorian tries to ignore the look in Bull’s eyes, he really does. Tries not to read into it, to think about how similar it is to the look Bull gave him last night. Fails.

He takes a single sip, before reluctantly, but firmly placing his glass in the sink. “You are absolutely no fun.”

“I’m just a different sort of fun.”

Bull has to turn back to his cooking before he has a chance to elaborate. Dorian feels no need to step in and help (Bull being infinitely more competent in the kitchen than Cullen), but he does feel the need for something to drink. Alcohol ruled out, Dorian puts the kettle on, and the rumble of the water coming to the boil layered over the sounds of cooking leave no room for talking until dinner is done.

It doesn’t take long, and they sit down at the kitchen table, across from each other. There are a long few minutes of silence that verges quite closely onto awkward, saved only by the naturalness of a silence that comes with busy mouths and filling bellies. 

There has been enough leftover wedding food and breakfast to graze on throughout the day that Dorian’s never quite made it to being hungry, but grazing itself is not substitute for real food, and Dorian’s surprised by how hungry he is. 

It isn’t until his bowl is nearly finished that Dorian feels the need to speak.

“You seem to have a bed thief,” he says, not realising until it’s out of his mouth just how many ways that could be interpreted.

“Well, a mattress thief at least.” Not much better.

“A mattress intercepter perhaps.”

Bull is still looking at him with a sort of patient curiosity that looks professional. 

“My mattress isn’t here,” Dorian says. “The frame is, though it is in more pieces than I would like.”

“Well shit,” Bull says, rubbing at his neck, “I’ll call the boys in the morning.”

Dorian waves him off, significantly less bothered by the situation than he had been before food, and gets up to gather and wash the plates. Bull is a tidy cook, and there are only a handfull left. 

“You can take mine,” Bull says.

“I’ll not have you sleeping on your own couch,” he turns and looks at Bull, trying to visualise how that would even work, “we shared well enough last night, I’m sure we can manage again. Could even be  _ fun _ .”

He turns back to his work before he has a chance to really see Bull react. Not that he doesn’t want to, so much as he doesn’t trust himself to accurately interpret it. There’s only so many times that can occur before it stops being an innocent mistake and starts becoming embarrassingly wishful thinking.

Bull stands and comes over to pass Dorian his glass, and there really is no need for him to crowd up right behind Dorian, or for him to reach around him to put it in the sink like that, brushing against Dorian’s own arm all the way.

“See you upstairs then,” he says, and walks away.

Dorian finishes the dishes, dries them, puts them away. He fetches his things from his room and takes them upstairs, stopping in the bathroom to brush his teeth and clean his face. 

Bull is getting himself ready for bed when Dorian comes in, down to his underwear without an ounce of shame and Dorian decides not to feel any either for how he admires Bull. He changes as well, fussing with his jewelry and folding his clothes neater than he might have unobserved.

By the time he’s ready, Bull is in bed already. Bare-chested and leaning back against the headboard, far more relaxed than he had been the night before. As Dorian sits down on the side of the bed, Bulls raises his arms, links his fingers behind his head and gives Dorian a long, appreciative look, up and down.

Dorian is tired, certainly, and is well aware that he has work in the morning, but his body (alright, his cock specifically) is more interested in the fact that he’s about to get into bed. With Bull. Sober. If the look in Bull’s eye is anything to go by, he’s interested to.

“You know,” Dorian says, “If I didn’t know better I’d think the missing mattress was some elaborate plan to get me into bed.”

Bulls laughs. Amused but not mocking, “I doubt it would take an elaborate plan. But you’re welcome here, even if it’s just to sleep.”

Dorian rolls his eyes, “Always the gentleman. First you marry me, then you offer me your bed.”

“Always happy to help.”

“Allow me,” Dorian says, leaning close, “ _ to show you how grateful I am. _ ”

Life in Tevinter will teach a young gay man many things. Caution. Discretion. To always count your exits and to be able to distinguish between a garden variety homophobe and someone looking for queer to bash no matter how many drinks deep you are. Most importantly, it will teach you to pick up any sign that you’re making moves on someone who is  _ not _ interested.

Bull, being a chronic flirt, complicates things. Nonetheless Dorian had finally been quite certain that they were on the same page. That Bull’s flirting was no longer for show. It’s not until Dorian’s close, until he is inches away from putting his hand on Bull’s broad chest and his mouth on that jaw that things change.

Dorian’s body reacts before his brain even finishes processing. Moving away before his mind consciously collates the stiffened posture and halted breathing and distracted gaze as  _ not interested _ .

Life in Tevinter will also teach you how to sound aloof and unbothered even as your chest clenches and a panic of embarrassments vie for first place. 

Dorian makes the executive decision that this never happened. Bull is a friend. A gentleman. His knight in shining bureaucracy. There was not, is not, and will not ever be anything else. 

A good thing, really. Makes things easier. Cleaner. 

“Well,” Dorian says, after a few long moments rearranging reality, “I best get to sleep.”

“Sleep well,” Bull says, tone absent of disgust or offence or, well, anything, “goodnight.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not quite finished with Chapter six, and I like to have a two chapter buffer, so let's say three weeks, with the possibility of a sooner update if I can get a zoom on.
> 
> Take care of yourselves!


	5. Something Of A Cosmic Joke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! Writing has been going well, despite how busy I've been, and given the whole world's completely wild at the moment, I figured we could all do with some shenanigans to distract us (with hints of pining and micro-angst to balance it all out). 
> 
> Alternate titles for this chapter include _Competent Women_ , _The Joys of Flatpack Furniture_ , and _Bed Sharing 3.0_.
> 
> Again, thank you so much to everyone who's commented on this. I work on it every day and it's become something really grounding for me, and to know others are enjoying it as well just makes my day!

Dorian has certainly had worse sleeps. Bull’s bed is comfortable, and when Dorian’s deeply asleep enough that his conscious mind can’t wreck havoc, having a companion is pleasant. Even so, he doesn’t sleep that deeply. Each time he drifts toward wakefulness he finds himself acutely aware of the distance between himself and Bull (or lack thereof, as it were). 

And so, it’s a relief when Dorian wakes a little before his alarm to find the bed beside him empty. He considers going back to sleep for a while, but there’s only minutes left before his phone starts to screech, and he can hear the rattly squeal of the coffeepot downstairs. 

Dorian waits the alarm out, using the minutes he has left to pull himself together. He does briefly consider dressing before he heads down the stairs, to provide an extra layer between himself and Bull, if nothing else. Even on a workday, however, ‘getting dressed’ is not something Dorian can do in a rush or without caffeine, so he grabs a robe to wrap around himself and makes his way downstairs.

There is no hint of last night’s awkwardness from Bull when Dorian makes it to the kitchen. He smiles when he sees Dorian enter, and pushes a cup of coffee across the table to him. Dorian folds himself into a chair and picks it up, nodding his appreciation. They know each other well enough that early morning silence offends no one.

There’s no famous egg sandwiches this morning, but plenty of cereal and toast, which Bull pulls out of the cupboard and sets down in front of him. By the time Dorian’s most of the way through his coffee he starts to be able to speak, responding to Bull’s questions. 

“When do you finish?” Bull asks him as he tucks his lunch into his messenger bag.

For a brief moment Dorian thinks Bull’s asking about his breakfast.

“Six,” Dorian says. A cautious estimate. He’d only taken a day off for the wedding but things had been... tense when he waltzed out of the office on Thursday afternoon. Accounting and Biology had been one wrong look from being at each other’s throats. There’s no telling what he’ll be walking into this morning.

Bull nods, “bout the same. I’ll pick some dinner up on the way home. We can do a proper grocery shop tomorrow.”

It’s so normal it almost hurts.

* * *

Miraculously, Accounting and Biology have managed to keep from kicking off in Dorian’s absence, though only because both departments had been distracted by the feud that had sprung up between the first and second year Arcanum students (based, Dorian finds out, upon a misappropriated parking space, a love dodecahedron and a jokingly made but sincerely taken challenge to fly an entire dorm’s underpants from the top of the circle tower).

None of this is  _ technically _ Dorian’s problem. The university employs many competent and caring individuals whose job it is to make sure that students pass their courses and don’t maim each other in the process, and Dorian is not one of them. The university is, however, something of a closed system, and whatever nonsense the students get up to will eventually echo out into the wider population.

At 11:34 someone pulls the fire alarm and Dorian decides to take an early lunch.

There’s a rather nice park not too far from his office, though far enough away that he can no longer hear the fire alarm blaring, and the walk to it takes him right past a street cart that he often frequents.

Lunch in hand, Dorian finds a comfortable bench and pulls out his phone. He’d intended to call Felix the day before but had got tangled up in all the mishaps. He’d thought of it once or twice during the day - just long enough to put it off until the evening which... also hadn’t gone as planned.

He knows Felix won’t be mad at him for taking an extra day, but he’s reluctant to let it turn into two, and more than that he needs someone he can talk to. The timing is a little outside the normal range for calling unannounced, but not so much that he risks pissing Felix off.

The phone only rings a twice before Felix picks up.

“Waiting on my call?” Dorian asks, with no attempt to hide how flattered he is.

“Uh,  _ yes _ ,” Felix says as though this was somehow prearranged, “two days you’ve left me hanging, now dish!”

This is not quite the intensity Dorian had been expecting. “Well the ceremony went well enough. The day after was a shamble. If I had more time we might play a fun game of ‘guess where Sera ended up’ but I do have a feeling we would here all day.”

Felix responds with a long suffering groan, “Don’t tease, tell me what  _ happened _ .”

“I did,” Dorian says, not entirely certain if he’s frustrated or confused, “we got married, had a rather fun night with our friends, followed by a ridiculous day after. Leliana had to  _ hotwire a rental van _ .”

It takes Felix a moment to respond to that. “We are  _ absolutely _ going to circle back around to Leliana Vasseur stealing a car-”

“She didn’t steal it, she hotwired it. And it was a van.”

“-hotwiring a van, but let’s start with you and Bull.”

“Bull and I doing what?”

“Each other.”

Dorian splutters, and finds himself switching to Tevene almost defensively. Not that there’s anyone really close enough to overhear him, but still.

_ “Where in the world did you get that idea?” _ Dorian demands, glad that this is an audio call only and that Felix can’t see his face. Not that he’s blushing.

_ “From you, Dorian,” _ Felix says, exasperation a familiar tone when speaking to Dorian.

_ “When?” _ Dorian says, trying to think back. He certainly hadn’t said anything the last time he called, right before the wedding. He hadn’t been willing to admit his wants to himself at that stage, let alone voice them in front of Leliana.

_ “Your texts,” _ Felix says, his own voice beginning to sound hesitant, and then his voice becomes a touch more echoey as he puts Dorian on speaker, presumably so he can track down said texts. Dorian does the same but can find nothing. Their most recent text had been checking in before a phonecall, and the one before that had been a hilarious Tevene-Common mistranslation Dorian had found at a bookshop.

“I didn’t text you anything,” Dorian says, just as another text arrives. This one is a screenshot from Felix’s phone where there are indeed a series of messages.

The first is a blurry photo of Dorian’s hand - and wedding ring followed by

> **[21:43] guess whos got a TICKET TO RIDE??**
> 
> **[21:44] to RIDE THE BULK**
> 
> **[21:44] ride the bill**
> 
> **[21:45] BULL**
> 
> **[21:45] THE IRON BULL**

Dorian chokes, and gets a thoroughly unempathetic snort from Felix.

“I have no recollection of this,” Dorian says. Mostly true. Now that they’re in front of him he does have a vague recollection--of swearing at his phone’s autocorrect if nothing else. “And the texts aren’t on my phone. I must have deleted them.” Another habit he’d picked up in Tevinter that he’d thought well behind him.

“Well,” Felix says, “now that  _ you’re _ all caught up, you need to catch  _ me _ up.”

The sandwich Dorian is holding prevents him from literally putting his head in his hands, but spiritually he is doing exactly that. 

“I did Felix, honestly. I wasn’t being obtuse. We had the ceremony, there were speeches, dinner, drinking, dancing. Well, I guess I did leave out the bit where Bull carried me to the bedroom and Sera pelted us with condoms but other than that, nothing. We went to to bed and slept, that was it.”

When Felix responds he doesn’t sound disbelieving so much as incredulous. “I had the impression you were interested in rather more than that.”

“Oh believe me, I was. Bull wasn’t.”

“Wasn’t interested in Dorian, or wasn’t interested in  _ Drunk Dorian _ ?”

Were he talking to anyone else, Dorian would have shut the conversation down with some swift redirection. Presuming he hadn’t redirected before they even got close to the subject. Felix though? Felix is the one Dorian workshopped every one of his verbal techniques on, and is one of the few people capable of redirecting Dorian right back. 

“Either,” Dorian says after a moment of consideration, “I had thought it was the alcohol also but...”

“But?”

“I was quite sober last night and it played out much the same.”

Felix is quiet. Dorian doesn’t remember telling Felix how he felt, can’t even remember exactly when he told himself. Something else he’d lost to the evening of his wedding perhaps. He has the feeling Felix might have known far longer. 

“I’m sorry,” Felix says after a moment, and that is quite enough emotional honesty for one lunchbreak.

“Oh hush, it’s perfectly fine. Annoying more than anything. After all the nonsense of yesterday we got back only to discover that my mattress was missing and my bed was in pieces, as if this whole thing wasn’t ridiculous enough, we had to share a bed  _ again _ .”

Felix, Andraste bless him, takes the hint.

* * *

While Dorian may have appreciated the early lunch break at the time (especially once his conversation with Felix moved on to describing the post-wedding antics), it does mean that his afternoon is longer than usual. Though luckily not a quiet enough afternoon for Dorian to really dwell on anything. Between catching up on Friday’s work and dealing with the new drama, the only real marker of time is the slowly growing hunger in his belly and the growing collection of empty coffee cups at his desk.

It’s nearing seven when before Dorian actually notices the time, and takes him another half hour from there to get his workflow into a state he can actually walk away from. He’s walking through the carpark when his phone chimes.

> **[19:23 | The Iron Bull] ‘staying late at the office’ already? ]’)**

Were it not for the fact that Dorian’s holding his phone at an awkward (and frankly dangerous) angle, he would have taken the emoji at the end for a keysmash.

> **[19:24 | Dorian Pavus] blast it, you’ve caught me. I’m sorry husband dear but I’m running away with the secretary**
> 
> **[19:26 | The Iron Bull] well, if the two of you need to make a pitstop, dinner’s ready**

Dorian snorts, though gratefully. His stomach, now that he’s been paying attention to it, is grumbling loudly. Bull’s place is even closer to work than his apartment had been, so he doesn’t bother texting Bull back.

The lights are on when Dorian gets back - kitchen windows ever-so-slightly fogged, but he can see Bull moving about. The smell of good green curry meets Dorian as he enters.

“Honey, I’m home,” he calls out. Not to do so would be a crime, honestly.

Bull sticks his head around the door frame. “Oh good, I was worried I’d have to eat this on my own,” he says, “where’s your secretary?”

“He got intimidated, I think.” Dorian says, kicking off his shoes and nudging them into the bottom of the rack.

“That’s a shame,” Bull says, though his voice is rather amused, “we could have had a  _ great _ night.”

Dorian snorts. “ How often does that sort of approach work?”

“More often than you’d think.”

In the brief period between Dorian entering the house and walking into his room to deposit his things, he has a rather lovely slice of an evening. Good food coming, good company. Lovely. Then Dorian does walk into his room, promptly stubbing his toe on a mattress that absolutely does not belong to him and remembers that his life is, in fact, something of a cosmic joke.

* * *

The introduction of a mattress in Dorian’s room is, theoretically, progress. Even if he’s not willing to put his bed frame together at this hour (and he’s not) Dorian is not beyond dropping the damn thing on the floor and sleeping on it like that.

He would have, honestly, were it not for the fact that is Not His Mattress. It isn’t the lack of ownership that worries him. It’s perfectly clean and mattress protectors work both ways, surely. No, the issue is the size. Dorian’s bed is a double. A little small for two people to share long term, but perfectly adequate for the occasional night of sharing, and perfect for one. 

The mattress that is sitting, propped against the wall in his new room is an exaggerated king size of some description. The sort that needs custom sheets ordered in from overseas or some nonsense. It’s enormous and plush and far too bloody big to actually fit flat on the floor in his little room.

If he shifted all of the other furniture and boxes out into the lounge he might just manage to squeeze it in. Taking the furniture out requires more effort than Dorian has in him tonight, though, which leaves him with only one real option.

They’ve managed two nights already. It’ll be fine.

* * *

Krem has come here to remove the mattress. Dorian has come here (on his lunch break) to allow Krem to take the mattress. What Krem is doing, however, is standing and staring at the mattress.

“You’re certain this isn’t your mattress?” he says, looking from the thick padding to Dorian and back again, “it looks like it should be your mattress.”

In this, Dorian must admit, Krem has a point. It is a beautiful, clearly exceedingly expensive mattress, and had it been small enough to fit in the bed frame Dorian would have kept it.

“You do see how it’s too large to even fit in the room, don’t you?”

Krem shrugs. “This room’s smaller than your old one.”

“True, but not enough to justify this. And you moved my other mattres in the first place.”

“I didn’t actually. I was on boxes. Didn’t bring it here either.”

“Cremisius I assure you, that is not my mattress. Could you please remove the mystery mattress so my mattress will fit.”

With a frown, Krem turns to look up at the door frame and then back at the mattress. “It’s not going to fit.”

“Of course it will. Someone got it in here, I’m sure you can get it out.”

Had the damn thing not been so vastly oversized, Dorian might have let Krem try and move it himself. As it is there’s really no reason he can come up with not to assist, and it becomes apparent almost immediately that Krem’s doubts were well grounded.

“Can’t you just, you know, shrink it?” Krem asks, voice a little muffled from where he’s pinned between the mattress and the doorframe.

“Of course,” Dorian says, eyes rolling despite the fact Krem almost certainly can’t see it, “let me just fetch a bread knife from the kitchen. Why didn’t I think of that.”

“Don’t be an ass,” Krem grumbles, “you know I meant magic.”

For this, Dorian determines that Krem being able to see him is essential, and shuffles along until they can at least make eye contact.

“I can’t.”

Krem snorts, “if your endless bragging is anything to go by  _ altus _ , I really think you can. I’ve seen you do magic.”

“You have  _ never _ seen me do magic,” Dorian says, evenly.

“Then what was that fire-twizzly-thing you did last winter?”

“That,” Dorian explains, in the tone he uses for interns who he is having to remind yet again never to touch the printer, “was a spell cast by Vivienne, I was merely... interfering with it. Perfectly legal.”

“Regardless,” he continues, “even if I were licensed to practice in Ferelden, it is not as simple as just ‘shrinking’ something.”

“Isn’t that how they get those internet ones in the boxes?”

“Well, yes, but that’s not done by just waving your hands around,” Dorian explains, waving his hands around, “It’s a spell that requires significant set-up, development, and oversight - none of which I have on hand right at the moment.”

They do eventually manage to get the mattress out of the room, but by the time they do so Dorian’s lunch break is well over and he has to leave Krem to handle the rest of the operation alone.

* * *

Bull is apologetic when Dorian gets back that evening - late again to make up for his extended lunch break. Dinner is on the table once more and Dorian makes a mental note to head in early one morning soon so he can be home in time to cook for Bull. This arrangement is lopsided enough already without turning The Iron Bull into his personal chef.

“It looks like your mattress never made it out of the moving van,” Bull reports, handing Dorian a plate, “which was also The Rental Van.”

“Ah,” Dorian says, fishing the cutlery out of the drawer, “how did I end up with the other one?”

“All the stuff people leave in rental vans gets chucked in this warehouse I guess, and when Dalish went to pick it up she grabbed the wrong one.”

Dorian raises his eyebrow. “What are the chances that was a genuine accident and not at all a jab at my fine taste.”

Bull considers this a moment, fork halfway to his mouth. “Two to five percent I’d say.”

* * *

Dorian goes to bed early that night. If he can make it to work early the next morning he should be able to leave early also. Make it home in time to make dinner and maybe even start assembling his bed frame. Bull’s promised to track down his actual mattress (and Dalish has confirmed that there was another in the warehouse, which is comforting).

Going to bed early has the added benefit of going to bed  _ before _ Bull does. Not by all that long, but long enough that Dorian can pretend to be asleep (or almost so) when Bull comes in. Bull is quiet as he moves around the room, quieter than Dorian had expected him to be, despite Dorian having told him that it was fine to make some noise.

For some reason, Dorian finds that it’s actually easier to drift off with Bull there than it had been before.

* * *

Despite how early Dorian’s alarm had been set, he hadn’t been entirely convinced that he would wake up before Bull. But his watch vibrates quietly on his wrist at 5:45, rousing him without interrupting Bull’s sleep too much. 

Dorian is shocked out of his sleep by it, and it takes him a few long minutes to fully make contact with consciousness. It takes another moment to process exactly where he is, and a final moment to realise exactly why that is an issue.

He is no longer on his own side of the bed, and is, instead, pressed close against Bull’s side, one ankle crossed with Bull’s and one hand resting on Bull’s chest, his cock rather enthusiastically pressing against his hip.

He needs to buy a new mattress. Today.

Dorian is careful, as he peels himself off of Bull and out of the bed. Even so, he’s surprised Bull hasn’t woken. It’s possible he’s actually wide awake, enacting the dedicated pretence of sleep. If so, it’s a mercy to both of them.

Downstairs, Dorian puts enough coffee on for two, though he fully intends to be out of the house as soon as possible. It’s a successful attempt, and he manages to limit his and Bull’s interactions to a few minutes of crossed paths, frantic enough to serve as a justifiable distraction. 

Even as he brushes his teeth and shoves his things into his bags, Dorian is watching. Bull shows no sign of discomfort or acknowledgement of anything other than the fact that Dorian’s beaten him out of bed for once. Pours his coffee appreciatively, hands Dorian things as they move through the kitchen and bathroom together.

It is an utterly normal morning, and it’s killing him.

* * *

Dorian doesn’t go mattress shopping in the end. He fully intends to, really, but as the panic wears off and the caffeine kicks in he realises two things. Firstly, mattresses are expensive, and secondly, mattress buying is a long process that requires testing and research - neither of which he has time for today.

What he does do is track down the rental van company, and a few calls on work time later he has an address and an appointment to go and collect his mattress. Crisis averted.

* * *

“How can this possibly be so difficult?” Dorian rubbing gingerly at his red knuckles. 

“Well, you aren’t a carpenter.” Felixes voice echoes out tinily from Dorian’s phone on the carpet next to him. 

“Such are the joys of flat pack furniture Felix,” Dorian says, waving an alan key (mostly for his own benefit), “one need not be a carpenter to assemble their own furniture.”

“Doesn’t sound very joyful.”

“Yes, well.”

The instructions (which Dorian has diligently kept) are written in a dozen different languages in cramped font on paper so thin it’s already translucent in places. Dorian’s common is nearly as good as his Tevene, and his Orlesian (written at least) is close enough to. Even his Antivan is passable and yet, as far as Dorian can tell not a single set of instructions bears even a passing resemblance to the others. 

“I think,” Dorian says, staring at the small pile of hardware in front of him, “what we’re dealing with are prank screws.”

“Excuse me?”

“Prank screws,” Dorian repeats, “joke ones that multiply and disappear at inopportune moments. That’s the only reasonable explanation.”

“Joke screws,” Felix says slowly as though hoping he misheard. 

“Magical probably.”

“Did you have this issue the first time you put it together?”

“No!” Dorian says, “that’s what I don’t get.”

“Well,” Felix says, “did you do it alone last time?”

Ah. 

“Apologies my dear but I shall have to call you back later, I need to call-“

“A competent woman?”

“Precisely.”

* * *

Friday comes and with it an impromptu housewarming of sorts. Dorian is mostly hosting it because he likes to, and because he wants to thank his friends for all their efforts. The fact that many of his friends are women who are entirely capable of helping him put his bed together  _ and _ serve as something of a buffer between himself and Bull? Delightful coincidence.

He gives a token effort at helping Sera and Josephine (which is a combination he is not familiar with nor certain he wants to be within splash range of) with the bedframe, but it becomes clear quite quickly that his talents are better applied to hosting than construction.

It’s not a big thing. People have brought snacks and drinks, there’s plenty of good conversation and Varric’s trying to get a party game going. 

He’s missed them all. Living alone Dorian had been forced to seek out company more often than not. Wandering down to Varric’s bar or dropping in to Herah’s for dinner. This week he’s been too preoccupied to do much else than drag himself home, eat and sleep, and for all Bull is another person that he’s been spending time with, it isn’t quite the same, and is certainly far less relaxing.

* * *

Dorian was expecting a gentle interrogation about his new living situation. 

He wasn’t expecting it to be Cassandra. 

She catches him in the kitchen as he pours drinks for the others (as promised) and doesn’t bother to pretend she’s there to help him carry the glasses back - though Dorian hands them over to her anyway. 

“How are you... adapting to your new situation?” she asks, hovering at his side.

“Well enough,” Dorian says.

“Is it what you expected?”

Cassandra is looking at Dorian intently, as though waiting for a very specific answer, though Dorian has no idea what that might be.

“Other than the furniture issues,” Dorian says, handing Cassandra two glasses and using the resulting gesticular freedom to wave in the vague direction of his bedroom, “yes.”

She continues to look at him for a long moment. “I see.”

“Err, yes,” Dorian says, certain he’s missing something, but with no idea what and no particular desire to find out. He picks up two glasses of his own and heads back into the lounge, Cassandra trailing behind him.

Cole (who Dorian is fairly certain wasn’t there when he went into the kitchen) is sat in front of Bull’s TV in a small nest of cables and adapters that make the Health And Safety Delegate in Dorian wince. As Dorian finishes passing out the drinks, Cole finishes his creative wiring project and the TV screen lights up with a vaguely familiar party game.

“Is this the guessing one?” Dorian asks.

“Yes,” Cole says, looking up at him, “but games aren’t always for winning,” he sighs, and gives Dorian a sad look, “and sometimes they aren’t games at all.”

The saving grace of Cole’s propensity for unnerving and surprisingly meaningful comments is that Cole himself doesn’t take them seriously at all. Seconds after his shares this piece of possible and abstract wisdom with the room, he’s handing out controllers and setting up the game as though nothing has happened.

He’s right on one front at least -- some games are fun despite the lack of competition. There aren’t enough controllers for everyone, so they end up grouping themselves into teams (though, teams that shift composition between every other round.

When Josephine and Sera emerge triumphant from Dorian’s room, he tags out and heads back in there himself.

Dealing with linens isn’t exactly Dorian’s idea of a good time, but he’ll enjoy it even less in a few hours when all he wants to do is crawl into bed and sleep. It’s not a long process. The duvet is already in it’s cover, as are the pillows, so it’s only really sheets and arrangement, and now things are assembled there’s enough room for Dorian to move through for it not to be too much of a hassle.

He gives himself a moment to stand back and look at it, at his new room. His friends are on the other side of the door, hollering at one another and it occurs to him that by all rights he should be in the final stages of packing up everything he owns to leave the country. 

It does odd things to his chest, that thought, but he is graciously saved from having to dwell on it by the sound of Varric yelling “ _ Sparkler!” _ insistently from the other room.

* * *

“There you go,” Dorian says, carefully navigating Cullen into the backseat of Varric’s car, as though Dorian himself isn’t nearly as drunk as he is. 

He winds Cullen’s window down before he shuts the door. He’s never seen Cullen get so drunk as to throw up before, and honestly he’s not that far gone right now, just sleepy and pouty, but when you add motor transport to the mix, anything’s game. 

Plus, Dorian likes to think that Cullen finds some puppy-like enjoyment of sticking his head out the window. 

The lounge is empty but for Bull when Dorian goes back in. He’s collecting glasses and empty bottles, working his way through the last few corn chips in the bowl as he goes. 

Dorian moves in to help, putting cushions back on couches and tugging shifted furniture back into the right place. They move past each other easily making space for one another as their paths cross. Dorian stops short in front of the pile of cables. He desperately, dearly, wants to untangle them. Coil them up and find somewhere safe to store them. 

What he has the capacity for right now though is limited to making sure they’re not plugged into any power source, and bundling them up and into the cupboard. 

“Good night,” Bull says behind him, and Dorian turns to look at him, responding in kind on instinct. He realises, a moment later that this is the first night in a week they’ve gone to bed separately.

This is wonderful of course. It’s a relief. 

There’s really nothing left to do in the lounge. Dorian could vacuum, if he was a monster, but other than that, there’s really nothing left to do. He fusses with the couch cushions anyway, not even quite sure why he’s procrastinating. He’s not worried about going to bed alone, he reminds himself, letting go of the upholstery and stepping back, heading for the bedroom. He’s looking forward to this. Looking forward to a bed to himself, and not having to worry about keeping to his own side of it.

(And yes, the opportunity to jerk off in peace is appealing also.)

He had even made the effort to get his lamps set up earlier that day, Dorian remembers as he opens the door to the soft glow. Though, he doesn’t remember turning the overhead lights off, or the lamps on. 

Dorian had probably just been distracted by the ruckus in the rest of the house and not noticed what he was doing. 

Much in the same way Dorian doesn’t notice what he’s doing until he sits down on his bed onto what appears to be a jumble of bones.

Sera, the little shit, doesn’t even have the decency to wake up. Not when Dorian sits on her. Not when Dorian tumbles off the bed in a panic, and not when Dorian curses loudly and emphatically in numerous languages.

Cole does wake up, sitting up sharply and giving Dorian his second near miss with a heart attack for the night.

Dorian considers asking what they’re doing there (sleeping apparently) or why they’re doing it there, but he’s well aware that none of those answers will help him in the slightest.

“I’m sorry?” Cole says, sounding confused but not sleepy, “did you want me to leave?”

“I-” Dorian says. Starts. Shakes his head.

“Go back to sleep.”

Dorian grabs his phone charger, and tugs his favourite pillow out from under Sera’s head before stomping up the stairs to Bull’s room. The light’s already off, and while it’s unlikely Bull’s actually asleep yet, Dorian takes it as an excuse to stay quiet, and just crawl into bed beside him, where Bull’s already pulled the covers aside to make space.

It doesn’t occur to him, until the next morning when he hears Bull cursing in surprise as Sera drags her bedraggled, hungover self out of the bedroom that as much as Dorian didn’t tell, Bull didn’t ask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm currently powering through chapter 8, so I'll be brave and pencil in an update two weeks from now. I'm trying to engage more with fandom/post about writing, so feel free to connect with me on tumblr (currently [@queerspacepunk](http://queerspacepunk.tumblr.com) and apologies it's a bit of a mess right now) or wherever it is the cool kids hang out these days!


	6. Rather Specific Connotations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand we're back! Thank you as always for your comments, and a special shoutout to captainpeggy whose flood of comments came just as I was working through a really tricky scene and losing all motivation.
> 
> I've upped the estimated number of chapters again - we're now looking at being about 14 in total, which puts us at not quite half way. So here's some fun and silliness before things start to ramp up.

Staff work is something Southern mages have all but left behind. A staff is not  _ necessary _ for spells, certainly, and some mages might not need a focus item of any sort. Some spells are small enough that they don’t require one

Some magic though, really does. Here in Ferelden, the tools mages use are purely functional. Ugly, obnoxious things wielded so ungracefully it sets Dorian’s teeth on edge. Back home though, it’s different. Magisters in particular keep the tradition, and so alti do also. Not for every spell of course - that would be unnecessary, but far more than they do down here. 

In Tevinter, staff work is a core part of a mage’s education, something Dorian was practicing by the age of five, long before there were any signs of magic (not to do so would be to admit that there was a chance the Pavus’ only heir had no magical ability which was far from an option). 

All throughout his years at the circle it had continued. Many of his peers had despaired of it, shown up reluctantly every morning, made excuses, put the least effort in. They argued that their careers were in research, or other roles that wouldn’t require it.

Dorian had planned to go into research also, but he’d never found anything that helped him understand magic so much as  _ practicing _ it. The drills had become comforting and familiar. A way to ground himself. His staff had been a precious thing. That’s not to say Dorian was gentle with it, or delicate, but it was something he handled every day, maintained every day. Upgraded it and adjusted it and tweaked it until it was an extension of himself.

He’d left it behind.

Even if Dorian had had the money to pay to transport his staff (which he didn’t), even if he hadn’t needed the money he got from selling it (which he did), and even if he’d been allowed to bring the thing into the country (which he wasn’t), there would be no chance to use it, and just having it around would have put him at risk of being reported for non-existent magic.

The first year or two away from home he’d managed to diligently not think about his staff, or magic at all for that matter (no mean feat for a young man whose main points of pride were his appearance and his skill at necromancy). The next couple of years he’d tried to ignore the growing frustration that this absence brought. Assigning the feeling instead to his collapsing relationships and stress.

Then Dorian reached Ferelden and met Herah who introduced him to Josephine who introduced him to Leliana who introduced him to Cullen who introduced him to Varric who introduced him to everyone else and then he was at Vivienne’s for a dinner party, staring longingly at  _ her _ staff, unable to continue to convince himself that he didn’t miss it.

The next day Dorian brought himself a broom, cut the end off and shifted all the furniture in the living space of his flat aside. The stick wasn’t quite right. Narrower than he was used to, the balance of it off. Even then, even with all the years out of practice he was, spinning it it felt like peace.

In the years since then, Dorian’s faux-staff has developed. One end wrapped thickly in electrical tape to adjust the balance, centre wrapped in fabric for a better grip. Dorian sticks mostly to his old drills, or trying to master things he’s seen before (or things he’s seen on the internet). 

He can’t sink quite as deep into the movement as he’d like, warring with the awareness that he really, really can’t risk this getting away from him. Even without spells, there’s something like magic in the action.

It’s a full week after moving in with Bull before Dorian has a chance to even consider his not-staff. Saturday morning, once Sera and Cole have left and Bull has retreated to study nook on the upstairs landing, he goes into the wardrobe to pull it out. 

Bull’s kitchen is bigger than the one in Dorian’s flat, possibly even larger than the whole living space had been. Dorian could easily have done this inside, like he was used to, but it had been far too long since he’d had a garden to practice in. His flat had only had a balcony, and the one or two past flats he’d lived in that had had gardens certainly hadn’t had privacy.

So, Dorian takes himself outside. Barefoot. Grass. Loose pants and a shirt he knows he’ll lose at some point. An approximation of a staff, and some quiet. He takes the first movements slow, to warm up his muscle more than through concern for lost skill. These simple motions are ones he’s made thousands of times. Patterns Dorian can’t forget even if wants to. 

Drills first. Defined series of movements created to enhance stamina, precision, then on to long flows of combat moves, strung together through instinct, through feeling his own body follow its own lead.

Dorian does lose his shirt. He doesn’t clearly remember taking it off, but he does notice the breeze on his chest,the sound of the staff twirling through the air, grass cool under his toes. Time is passing, obviously, but Dorian is far too occupied with the hint of magic at his fingertips, mind trailing to questions that seem different in this state.

He does notice the click of the door behind him.

Dorian doesn’t drop the staff. That, he’s proud of. The final catch isn’t fumbled, but only through luck, and he’s facing the house by the time the bottom end of the staff comes down to rest.

Bull’s standing. Watching. Dorian, at first. His face, his chest. Then the staff, Dorian’s shirt lying in a pile on the ground.

Then at the scattered scorch marks.

Dorian has never been less certain of how a moment will play out.

Bull’s face is passive, uncomfortably so, as he stares at the grass. Dorian’s panic at having lost control like that is trying to bubble out of his mouth in apologies.

_ I can fix it _ he wants to say or  _ it was an accident _ or  _ I’m sorry, I’ll leave. _

He waits. Bull looks away from the grass, and then up, slowly, at Dorian. Now there is an expression on his face, though it’s not one Dorian can parse. 

“Easy there, hot stuff.”

That at least, Dorian knows how to respond to.

“Oh I assure you,” Dorian says, swinging his staff into a more proper rest position, “that was very easy.”

“You look a little hot and bothered to me.”

He’s not wrong. For all it had felt easy as breathing, the activity has left Dorian sweaty, hair sticking to his forehead, the staff in his grip warm in a way that really should have tipped him off.

“This is nothing,” Dorian says, ducking down to grab his shirt. He briefly considers putting it back on, but opts instead to use it to wipe his face. 

He’s careful not to let the movement of his staff to be too quick, too firm, too threatening. Bull’s not a fan of magic at the best of times, and while he and Dorian have never really had a chance to talk about their pasts in that much detail, Bull is watching Dorian’s staff like he knows exactly what it could do. He probably does.

Bull is still standing there, right in the doorway when Dorian finishes wiping down his face. He doesn’t move as Dorian steps towards him, like he’s waiting to see what will happen.

Dorian props his staff against the back of the house. He’d been planning to take it back inside, but Bull’s garden is private enough he doesn’t need to worry about anyone seeing, and he thinks maybe Bull will feel better for it being where he can see it. 

He still hasn’t moved. Dorian steps toward him. Right up close. Still, no movement. So, Dorian shrugs, and pours himself through the space between Bull’s hip and the doorframe.

* * *

Chess is another thing Dorian has missed. His weekly lunchtime sessions with Cullen having been postponed in favour of fittings and frantic planning meetings. By the time Dorian meets with him a week and a half after the wedding, it’s been nearly a month since they sat down together.

Their venue of choice is a local combination cat and boardgame cafe. It has the advantage of being exactly halfway between their workplaces, a chessboard that is always free, and the added entertainment of Cullen being perplexed as to why every cat in the place is in love with him.

“How are things?” Cullen asks, moving his knight and leaning back in his seat, creating room for an enthusiastic tabby to leap into his lap. 

“Well enough,” Dorian says, trying to focus on the board and not Cullen’s painfully awkward attempt at petting his new friend. They’d gone over the mattress drama during the “house warming” and other than that there really isn’t much to say. It’s been, well, normal.

“Shockingly domestic,” Dorian says as he makes his move.

“No trouble?” Cullen asks, leaning forward carefully so as not to disturb the cat. 

“You say that like you expect me to have caused it.”

Cullen just shrugs, trying not to smile, but gets his comeuppance, yelping and jumping in his seat as a surprisingly agile, impressively round ginger cat lands on his shoulder.

“Well,” Dorian admits, “he did catch me with my staff over the weekend.”

“Uh...”

“I thought he might take issue with it, but he just made some terrible puns.”

Dorian takes one of Cullen’s pawns, and looks up at him. Cullen is perfectly still and looks entirely lost.

“Do you think I should avoid it in future?”

Cullen coughs. “I er, well that’s up to the two of you really.”

Dorian rolls his eyes, “Yes, yes I’ll ask him. Communication and all that. But you understand where he’s coming from. You have similar... experiences.”

“I don’t, um, I don’t know what you mean,” Cullen says, suddenly taking great interest in his new friends.

Dorian sighs, though not as dramatically as he could have done, and lets it be.

* * *

He tries Sera next. She’s characteristically vocal about her dislike for magic, though it seems to come more from a place of “I don’t get it, weird” than Bull and Cullen’s more... complicated relationship.

“I don’t know what to make of it,” Dorian says. They’re sitting at Varric’s bar. It’s a fairly quiet night which avoids him having to yell to be heard, “I hadn’t even noticed he was there and then he was just staring at me and my staff.”

It is a sign of just how long they have been friends that Dorian only has it in him to sigh and wrinkle his nose at the spray of beer that comes out of Sera’s nose.

“Is it really such a big deal?” Dorian asks, pulling out a handkerchief for her, “Cullen reacted just about the same, and I know he has his... issues, but this is a little excessive.”

“Depends,” Sera says, and Dorian does not like the grin she’s giving him, “where were you?”

“In the garden,” Dorian says, though he’s not sure why this matters. Sera though, clearly has opinions, because he eyes go wide and her hand goes up demanding a high-five. He really doesn’t understand why that’s necessary, but left hanging Sera will only berate him into it, so he meets her palm with his own.

“Were you  _ starkers _ ? Sera asks, gleeful.

“What? No of course I wasn’t naked,” Dorian shakes his head at her, “I’d taken my shirt off but I was wearing trousers.”

Sera shrugs, “I had to ask though, aye? You were doin’ it in the garden, how was I supposed to know you’d keep your breeches on.”

“You’re no help at all,” Dorian says, looking for Varric and the promise of another glass of wine.

Varric’s only a few feet away, actually, and seems to be scribbling away in one of his notebooks. Not an entirely unusual sight for an author on a quiet night, but Dorian is not a fan of the look Varric gives him when he shoves the notebook in his pocket and walks over.

“What’s that for?” Dorian asks, gesturing at Varric’s face.

He only grins. “It’ll come to you.”

* * *

At approximately 10:15 that night, as Dorian is standing next to Bull brushing his teeth, it does.

* * *

When Dorian suggests they go out for dinner, it’s not  _ entirely _ because he doesn’t want to cook. He’s a perfectly  _ decent _ cook (through sheer stubbornness if nothing else) and usually finds it an enjoyable pass time -- especially if there’s a glass of wine in hand. 

At the end of their first week living together, it had occurred to Dorian that Bull had cooked dinner every single night, and breakfast some mornings as well. He hadn’t appeared put out by it, and it wasn’t like Dorian had been lounging around waiting while Bull made their meals -- he’d been staying late at work for the most part.

Regardless, Bull not only marrying Dorian, giving him a roof over his head  _ and _ cooking for him constantly left an uncomfortable taste in Dorian’s mouth, so when Bull mentioned the night after their “house warming” that he would be working longer shifts all week and not coming home until later, it only made sense for Dorian to offer to take over.

Monday through Wednesday had been perfectly fine. Wine, music, time to spend on making a meal he was proud of. Thursday had been rushed and resulted in Dorian making the quickest recipe he had on hand. Bull had been thankful when he finally made it in the door, and had worked through a good two and a half servings, but he was distant in a way Dorian suspected had very little to do with the food.

So, when Dorian’s Friday turned out to be an unpleasant evolution of his Thursday, and he realised at 4PM that he had forgotten to get the meat out of the freezer, shouting himself and Bull to a meal out that neither of them had to cook or clean up after seemed like a winner on all fronts.

Dorian hand picks up the phone and dials Bull’s number before it occurs to him that texting might be more appropriate. On the second ring Dorian considers hanging up and pretending it was a butt dial.

On the third ring he remembers that he’s calling from his desk phone, and that a ‘butt dial’ in this context would have rather specific connotations.

On the fourth ring Bull picks up

“Yeah?”

“Oh,” Dorian says, “I thought you would be busy. Well, that you might have been busy. Are you busy?”

“Very.”

“Well, yes. Of course you are. How about we go out for dinner tonight. My treat.”

“Sure.”

That’s something at least. Dorian lets himself relax a little “Do you have any preferences-”

“No.”

“Right,” Dorian says, “I’ll, uh, text you the details. Seven?”

The sound from Bull’s end of the phone goes echoey, like he’s moved away from it to look at something.

“Eight.”

“Eight it is. Have a good afternoon.”

“Yeah,” Bull says, and the line goes dead before Dorian has a chance to say anything more.

* * *

Eight is an awkward time for a dinner reservation. Seven is just enough time to get home from work, change, fix one’s hair and moustache and make it to the restaurant exactly on time. Eight is trickier.

Dorian tries working late. Figures he can maybe earn himself a slightly later start come Monday, but it’s really rather difficult to focus when a large portion of your cognitive function is trying to decipher why your husband/roommate was so terse on the phone. Dorian barely makes it to his usual finishing time before he’s desperate to be out the door. 

The traffic on the way home (such as it is here in New Haven) is quieter than it should be on a Friday night at ‘rush hour’. Dorian’s moustache is still perfectly in place, and for the first time in perhaps ever, he pulls together a perfect outfit on the first go.

As it is he’s in genuine danger of being  _ early _ for a seven o’clock dinner, let alone eight. 

“I’m seriously considering cleaning the oven,” Dorian says, when Josephine picks up. He has a glass of wine in one hand (walking to the restaurant rather than driving will use up another 25 spare minutes) and the phone on speaker as he puts away the last of the (now clean -- 15 minutes) dishes.

“Is this a euphemism?” Josephine asks in response.

“If only,” Dorian says with a sigh, “that would solve the problem entirely. Alas I have time to kill and I’m considering cleaning the oven. How long does that usually take?”

“It depends on the product, but perhaps half or three quarters of an hour to begin with, plus time for it to sit. More if you choose to do the stovetop as well.”

“Hmph.”

“Are you quite alright?” Josephine asks, “is the oven alright?”

“What?” Dorian says, picking up the phone and bringing it closer, “no, of course not. Well. I did make a mess of the stovetop the other night but I cleaned that right away. I’m not  _ Cullen _ .”

“Cullen isn’t that messy,” Josephine says, amused.

“You’ve clearly never been on the receiving end of his scrambled eggs,” Dorian points out.

“Cooking is on your mind, I see.”

“Well,” Dorian admits, “dinner is. I’m meeting Bull at eight and I refuse to be early.”

There’s a pause long enough that Dorian taps the screen of his phone to make sure the call hasn’t ended.

“Are you,” Josephine finally says, “going on a date?”

Dorian sighs, “we’re going to  _ dinner _ .”

“Where?”

“Veraldi’s.”

Dorian’s almost certain he hears her snort.

“I better be going,” he says, though it’s not true at all.

“Goodnight,” Josephine says, and she’s grinning, he can tell, “enjoy your.. not-a-date at  _ Veraldi’s _ .”

* * *

Veraldi’s is not the nicest restaurant on Dorian’s list. The restaurant that  _ is _ at the top of the list is both well outside of his price range and not the sort of place Bull would be entirely comfortable. Veraldi’s is nice though. Comfortable and relaxed, good food, well-levelled music, a commitment to be accessible to patrons of all races.

That was what had been running through Dorian’s head when he made the booking. What hadn’t occurred to him until after he had spoken to Josephine was that Veraldi’s was also Dorian’s go-to date restaurant.

In the half hour Dorian has before he has to leave for Veraldi’s, he talks himself into and out of cancelling the reservation no less than four times, checks the fridge for possible meal ingredients thrice, and makes two rather unsuccessful attempts at looking up “unromantic restaurants in New Haven” on his phone.

It’s not until he’s halfway to Veraldi’s that Dorian remembers that his estimate for how long it would take had been based on walking there from his  _ old _ apartment.

“You’ll only be a few minutes late, Pavus,” he mutters to himself, “and you heard Bull, he’ll probably be late himself. No need to fret.”

Dorian  _ is _ only a few minutes late. Bull on the other hand, appears to have been perfectly on time and is seated at the table when Dorian arrives.

There are two things that will be obvious after even the briefest of encounters with Dorian Pavus. Firstly, he is a flirt, and secondly, he’s from Tevinter. Both of these facts have a tendency to get him into trouble. The flirtation is his own fault, really, but he cannot help from being a Vint, and while yes Tevinter does have rather a lot to answer for, and any Fereldan who were to approach the discussion respectfully would find that Dorian is mostly in agreement with all their concerns, Southerners have their stereotypes and their assumptions, which rarely work in Dorian’s favour. 

Being from Tevinter also means that Dorian finds it almost painful not to tip. He knows it isn’t done here, he knows that (unlike back home) the staff waiting on him actually have paychecks large enough to live off of, but it still feels wrong not to.

And so, by virtue of his charming nature and tendency to tip, over the years that Veraldi’s has become one of Dorian’s favourites, Dorian has become one of Veraldi’s favourites.

The table Bull is seated at when Dorian arrives is tucked away a little. Enough to provide a touch of privacy without feeling like it’s shoved in the corner. There are candles on the table, and flowers.

Bull’s earlier sour mood has dissipated, and as Dorian takes his seat, Bull is grinning.

“I didn’t realise we had such a romantic night planned.”

Dorian huffs, “neither did I. I promise I didn’t ask for this.”

“Oh,” Bull asks, raising one eyebrow, “they just did this for shits and giggles, huh?”

“Well,” Dorian says, straightening his shirt collar where it’s been disturbed by his jacket, “I imagine they just made a guess based on past... experiences.”

“Had a few dates here, huh?”

“A reasonable number, yes,” Dorian admits, “plenty of which were somehow more awkward than this.”

“I bet you say that to all the boys,” Bull says, and winks.

“Only the special ones, my dear.”

Their server arrives then, saving Dorian from having to deal with that wink further.

Dorian orders wine, and turns to Bull for his order only to get a look.

“Are you sure about that,  _ babe _ ?” Bull says, face serious but unable to keep the slight upturn from the corner of his mouth.

Dorian is absolutely, unequivocally, not falling for that one again. But ‘babe’? That is a game he can play.

“I walked here,  _ darling _ ,” Dorian says, “you get to be my big strong sober driver.”

The server is not one Dorian knows by name, but she is clearly familiar enough with him that she’s batting not even an eyelid at any of this. She rather looks like she’s enjoying it.

Bull has a menu open in front of him, and Dorian’s familiar enough with it that he needs only a moment to check before ordering. Bull looks surprised at that, but is quick enough, listing off his order without hesitation.

“You’re in a better mood,” Dorian observes as their server walks away. Bull definitely looks tired, and his leg is propped out at an angle that suggests he’s spent too long on it, but he’s not carrying the air of weary frustration Dorian had been expecting.

“It’s been a week,” Bull acknowledges, relaxing back into his chair. “Work’s... something I don’t want to have to think about right now.”

Dorian’s happy enough to acquiesce to that, though it does leave him somewhat adrift for conversational topics. His own work has been rather dull of late, in a way that he thoroughly appreciates during office hours, but provides few interesting anecdotes. Now that Dorian and Bull live together, stories of home are also moot.

He casts his eyes around the room looking for some sort of prompt, but all that’s coming to mind are his previous experiences in the restaurant, and telling your current date about their forebearers isn’t considered to be good form.

At least, not typically. This is not a typical situation. By the time their server returns with drinks, Dorian has something in mind.

“Have you ever met an Antivan with a shellfish allergy?” Dorian asks.

“Is this a joke?”

“No,” Dorian says, “but it is funny.”

“Alright then,” Bull says, leaning in a little. “No, I haven’t.”

“Not many of them, that I can tell,” Dorian says, “and those that are don’t like to admit it. Seafood is a national treasure, as far as I can gather.”

“They do it well,” Bull agrees, and Dorian makes a mental note to enquire about Bull’s apparent visit to the country at a point in time where it will not interrupt his story.

“Do you remember the Antivan I dated very briefly?”

(The term ‘dated’ is something of a stretch, honestly).

“The blonde one?”

“No, the other one. With the curls.”

Bull nods. Whether he actually remembers or is taking Dorian’s word for granted is unclear, but it doesn’t really impact the story.

“Well,” Dorian continues, “we came here. It went well to begin with. Second date and all, I had high hopes. He ordered with rather a lot of enthusiasm, which I put down to excitement about decent seafood.”

“A reasonable reaction,” Bull says.

“Quite,” Dorian takes another sip of his wine, choosing his words carefully. “The meal comes and he starts eating and all is well for all of five minutes, then his lips start to swell a little, and he’s breaking out in hives and when he stops eating long enough to talk it’s quite clear that he’s having some sort of reaction.”

Bull’s eyebrow rises. “Did he not know?”

Dorian snorts, “Oh he knew. Insisted that nothing was wrong. Said he was fine, that this was just like breaking out in a sweat when you eat something spicy.”

“Then,” Dorian continues, “he ordered more. The server had to cut him off in the end.”

Bull shakes his head and whistles low. “That must have been an interesting goodnight kiss.”

Dorian winces, “It was more of a “good morning kiss.”

Bull, who had been settling back in his seat is now leaning forward again. “You fucked a guy having an  _ allergic reaction?” _

“Maker no!” Dorian says. “Idiot didn’t have an epipen -- insisted he had no allergies and didn’t need one -- and refused to go to the hospital so I had to go back to his house and babysit the man.”

“How chivalrous,” Bull says, and he looks genuinely impressed. 

Dorian shrugs it off. 

Their server returns to the table with a starter that neither of them ordered (which Dorian suspects they won’t have to pay for either). 

Their meals are as good as expected. Dorian finds himself reaching over to snag a bite of Bull’s dish before really thinking it through. By the time it occurs to him that he should have perhaps asked, the fork is halfway to his mouth and it’s far too late to stop. Bull watches the whole thing intently before reaching over and stealing a piece of Dorian’s in return.

From there the artificial social constructs of “Dorian’s meal” and “Bull’s meal” dissolve entirely as they pass side dishes back and forth. When their server comes to take their plates and offer a dessert menu, Dorian shuffles his chair around the table a little so they can look at it together.

“The affogato,” Dorian orders after a moment’s deliberation, “what about you,  _ sugar _ ?”

“Just a spoon, to share,” Bulls says, “if that’s alright with you,  _ sweetheart _ .”

* * *

Dorian makes his excuses to leave the table as soon as dessert is finished. Neither of them seem in any rush to leave, and the restaurant isn’t so busy as to make Dorian feel bad about keeping the table, but if he’s going to have to pay at the counter, he’d rather not do so with an audience.

Francesca (one of the titular Veraldis) is there to ring up the order. 

“We haven’t seen you in a while,” she says, tapping at the computer screen.

“Things have been rather interesting of late.”

“ _ Very _ interesting,” Francesca says, looking pointedly over Dorian’s shoulder to where Bull is sitting, “poor Louissa nearly had to have a lie down after she showed him to the table.”

Dorian shakes his head with a smile. “He does have that effect on people.”

She fixes him with a stare. “Does he have that effect on you?”

Herein lies the rather tricky part of fake-marrying someone so as to not get deported. There are many people in Dorian’s life whom he trusts well enough that they know the truth of it. There are others who are so secondary to Dorian’s life that they need never know, and then there are those right in the middle.

It’s not that he thinks Francesca would call immigration on him, but word travels just as fast here as it does back home, and it only takes the littlest of slips, and frankly, he doesn’t want to put her in that position. to say no at this stage would only look suspicious, especially given all the flirting they’ve done in front of Louissa.

“I should say so,” Dorian says, reaching for a mint, “since I married him.”

Francesca’s mouth drops open as Dorian pops the mint in his own.

“What- How-  _ when _ ?”

“About two weeks ago,” Dorian says, pulling his wallet out. Francesca doesn’t even look at it, but her hospitality instincts kick in and she continues totalling Dorian’s order on autopilot.

“It was all rather sudden,” Dorian explains (true), “but we just couldn’t wait.” (Also true).

As Dorian pays for their meal (as suspected, the extra starter is not on the receipt) Francesca glances back and forth between Dorian and Bull, expression both bemused and delighted. Louissa wanders over as Francesca is handing Dorian’s card back to him, and she suddenly looks stricken, mouth a tight line as her gaze now darts back and forth between Dorian and Louissa.

“Oh go on,” Dorian says, smiling as he starts walking back to the table, “tell her.”

* * *

“Just so you know,” Dorian says as he sits back down, “by the time we leave every staff member in the building will know we’re married.”

“Ah,” Bull says, looking over Dorian’s shoulder and giving the women a wave, “is that why they’re so excited?”

“Quite.” Dorian twists to look back himself - there are now five people standing by Francesca, “you’re welcome to say no of course, but how do you feel about playing it up a little? I’m sure they’ll enjoy it.”

Bull gives Dorian a rather wicked grin. “You’re on,  _ cupcake _ .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Making good progress writing wise, so I should see you all back here in two weeks for another update!


	7. Room for Escalation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm alive! I am so sorry for how late this update is. I ended up getting _shingles_ at the stat of the month followed by some insomnia that made it pretty hard to recover and made me pretty much no good at anything. I really wanted to finish chapter nine before I posted this but alas, I'm still plugging away at it.
> 
> Excuses and apologies aside, welcome to chapter seven! We're pretty much at the halfway point now and while this isn't a particularly _long_ chapter, it's a busy one. 
> 
> Oh, and a heads up there's some mentions of transphobia near the start (involving a minor, unnamed character)

By the time Bull makes it home from work on Monday, all the ease he’d settled into over the weekend is gone, replaced by frustration that is uncomfortable despite all efforts Bull makes to keep himself in check.

Despite the occasional snap or sharp answer, Dorian finds it easy enough to remember that he is not the focus of this so much as a witness. Bull hasn’t shared any more of what’s going on, and to be fair, Dorian hasn’t asked, but as Monday rolls into Tuesday rolls into Wednesday he has to admit that his reluctance to ask is having less to do with wanting to respect Bull’s privacy as it does his uncertainty of how to deal with he situation.

They still eat dinner together, trading off who cooks and who cleans, with Bull retreating to his study nook on the upstairs landing afterwards. Dorian isn’t sure what he’s doing up there, given medical records aren’t exactly something you can bring home, but he’s usually still working when Dorian goes up to brush his teeth before bed. 

Thursday night Dorian jumps the queue and cooks, ensuring Bull stays in the kitchen washing the dishes for the few moments Dorian needs to get things just right. By the time Bull is done, Dorian is there in the kitchen doorway, ready and waiting to grab him by... well, the plan had been  _ shoulders _ but turns out to be waist instead, and marches him into the lounge where the lights are off, the space lit by a few scented candles, soft, relaxing music is playing quietly.

He’s well aware of how this looks - as is Bull if the raised eyebrow is anything to go by - but Dorian has decided not to care. Dorian leads Bull to the couch, sits him down and circles around to the back, opening the already loosened cap of massage oil.

“Shirt off,” Dorian says, and Bull doesn’t even turn to look before complying. Which is... interesting. Bull isn’t tense exactly, but when Dorian’s hands land on his shoulders, oil warmed (by non-magical means, of course) he relaxes just a bit.

This is the first time Dorian has attempted a massage on a qunari (though not the first time he’s been handsy with one), but his research has informed him that the principle is the same. He starts with Bull’s shoulders. Firm, even movements to warm Bull’s skin and let the man relax. 

Dorian settles into it slowly, letting himself get familiar with scars he’s only ever looked at before but never felt, digging his thumbs into knots of tension and running the heels of his hands along the line of Bull’s spine. 

Bull’s relaxing now, leaning back into Dorian’s grip. Dorian works his way slowly up Bull’s neck, following the tension until his fingers press into the skin at the base of Bull’s horns.

The noise that comes out of Bull’s mouth is so utterly filthy that they both freeze, a long moment of almost painful tension before they both burst into laughter.

Dorian flicks playfully at the back of Bull’s head, returning his hands to his neck, where he digs in a little harder, drawing another (less suggestive) sound of appreciation from Bull. 

“You’re good at this,” Bull says, voice low.

“Of course I am,” Dorian says, finding another knotted muscle to focus on. “Lucky too, you’re in dire need of it.”

Bull doesn’t respond for a while. Dorian can feel the shift in tendons as he opens his mouth. Closes it again.

“It’s been a rough week. Work.”

Dorian makes a noise of acknowledgement, forces himself to keep his mouth shut. None of this is news, and no matter how much he wants to  _ ask _ he knows not to. Knows that this needs to come from Bull unpressured if it’s going to come at all.

“It’s one of the kids,” Bull admits, “she’s an incredible musician and she’s got this hardcore goth aesthetic going on -- you’d love it -- but she’s the sweetest thing. She’s at this shitty school and she’s trying  _ so hard _ to keep it together.”

Dorian’s never heard Bull talk about his patients before. Not individually. He’s pretty sure he shouldn’t even be hearing this. He keeps his hands moving. Soothing.

“She’s been living with her dad since she came out, thank fuck,” Bull continues, “but then dad got a new girlfriend and mom got in a snit and started taking it out on the kid. Suddenly wants custody after five years. She’s taking the dad to court, saying he’s abusing their kid by letting her be on blockers, by letting her be who she is.”

There is a sharpness in Dorian’s chest and all he can see is Mae, fifteen and furious and frightened.

“So now we’re not allowed to prescribe her anything,” Bull says, voice catching, “as though withholding treatment is somehow a neutral option. As though it’s not  _ hurting her _ .”

Every bit of tension Dorian’s managed to release from Bull seems to be seeping back in, and he moves his hands back up Bull’s neck, thumbs digging into the point where neck meets skull, fingers sweeping up to the base of Bull’s horns, to his temples.

When Bull speaks again, Dorian’s never heard him so close to crying.

“I can’t  _ do _ anything to help. If there’s was fuckin’ anything I could do I would, but...”

“Yeah,” Dorian says, fingers skimming the scar tissue where Bull’s left eye used to be, “I know you would.”

The Iron Bull’s head tilts back, resting against Dorian’s chest, looking up. 

Dorian nearly bolts. Nearly stumbles back and out of the room and away from Bull and from that look and from the warmth of his skin.

And then Bull tips his chin up, just a little, like he’s reaching, like he’s asking. Like Bull needs something from him.

And all Dorian can do is lean down and kiss him. 

It’s a little like casting lightning for the first time. Committing yourself to an action that you’re certain is going to hurt, only to find yourself unharmed, skin humming. The kiss itself is... gentle. No frantic energy or sexual frustration. No rush, just a kiss and a closeness and comfort.

This time, Bull doesn’t pull back.

When Dorian breaks this kiss he is... wary, but not panicked. Bull looks up, smiles. It’s no grin, no smirk. Just a smile. Small and weary and content.

* * *

Dorian goes back to his room after, and Bull to his. Dorian’s skin is warm and prickling and he wants nothing more than to keep his hands on Bull’s skin all night long. To kiss him closer and forget about consequences and meanings and caution.

But Bull kissed him back. Kissed him back and smiled and sank back into Dorian’s hands and Dorian’s care. Bull thanked him and said goodnight and laid his hand on Dorian’s shoulder far longer than he needed to. Dorian doesn’t know what this means. All he does know is that there is a need for patience.

* * *

Sometimes, Dorian misses smoking. His misses it less than he thought he would, when he quit. Breaking free of the nicotine was a bitch, obviously, but for all he was conditioned to crave the way the smoke filled his lungs, he’d never really enjoyed it. No, what Dorian misses has less to do with the cigarettes and more to do with the smoking. The excuse to go outside and take a minute, to seek out the refuge of a dark and chilly porch. When he first left Tevinter, he would do this almost every night. Head out the backdoor of whatever shitty hostel or overcrowded house he was staying in, cheap coffee and a cigarette in hand and a cell phone that mysteriously continued to function, no matter how long it had been since he’d last paid the account.

He’d call Felix, or Mae, or occasionally Rilienus and bitch about the cold. Pretending like he wasn’t staring up at the sky and thinking that no matter how distant the voices, they were all sitting under the same moons.

For the first couple years after he’d quit, Dorian had had to avoid those spaces altogether. Even now that he’s years on and no long feels the urge quite so intensely, Dorian has to make sure he has something in his hands when he’s outside and on the phone, if only to stop him compulsively checking his pockets for a smoke and a light.

Friday night he calls Felix from the back porch. Felix tells him about his plans to visit Mae, Dorian fills him in on the latest installment of the unofficial soap opera that is his workplace.

“How are things with Bull?” Felix asks.

“Interesting.”

“What kind of  _ interesting _ ?”

“His professional life has been rather... taxing,” Dorian explains, fingers twisting around the pen he’s brought out to fidget with, “so I gave him a massage. A friendly one.” Felix doesn’t need the exact details of the setting.

“And?” Felix prompts, his tone suggesting that he’s written the word ‘friendly’ off as window dressing.

Dorian sighs. “And then I kissed him.”

The noise Felix makes at that is enough to make Dorian very glad he’s not put him on speakerphone.

“ _ Vasta fass _ Dorian! How in the Maker’s seven balls do you not  _ lead _ with that.”

“It seemed a little gauche,” Dorian offers half-heartedly, and allows Felix a few moments of lovingly cursing Dorian out in every language they both share.

“Right,” Felix says, a little breathless, once he’s done. “Details. Now.”

“There aren’t that many,” Dorian says, sipping at his tea, “we kissed, we said goodnight, we went to bed separately.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Okay,” Felix says, clearly a little thrown by this. “Details on the kiss then, what was it like?”

“Nice,” is what Dorian comes to after a short reflection, “gentle. I’d almost go so far as to say it was ‘chaste’ - if that didn’t make me sound like a chantry sister.”

Felix snorts at that, and Dorian knows for a fact that he is visualising their Third Year Post-Exam Fancy Dress Party.

“Now what?” he asks, and Dorian returns to the present with a frown.

“Here we come to the crux of the matter,” Dorian admits, “I haven’t a fuck of a clue. I have no idea what the man wants.”

The Iron Bull had kissed back. That much Dorian is sure of. Even if it weren’t for the fact that Bull is more than capable (and willing, as shown just recently) to put a stop to anything he doesn’t want, Dorian is quite confident in his own abilities to pick up any real sign of hesitance. There’d been no one in that kiss who didn’t want to be. 

“First I think he’s not interested,” Dorian says, pitching his voice lower despite the fact that Bull is at least three solid walls away, “then he’s all come-hither looks and innuendo and going on about  _ fun _ , and then he’s making it very clear that he’s  _ not _ interested, and now he’s kissing me back!”

Felix hums along in acknowledgement as Dorian vents. He’s barely admitted any of this to himself, let alone anyone else, but he’s not so focused on it as to not notice the complete lack of surprise in Felix’s response.

“I’m sorry,” Felix says, once Dorian runs out of words to put his frustration to, “you won’t like this, but I think you know what you have to do here.”

“Pretend that none of this ever happened and everything is fine?” 

“ _ Dorian. _ ”

“Yes, yes, I know.” He sighs. “I have to  _ talk _ to him.”

“About what?”

“This. Us.”

“Don’t sound so down,” Felix says, “if you’re as good at talking as you claim to be this’ll be easy.”

“I hope you understand that you’re undoing generations of careful Pavus breeding with all this “open communication” business.”

“Yeah Dorian,” Felix says, voice soft, “that’s kind of the idea.”

* * *

Dorian decides to wait the weekend out. Work is clearly getting to Bull, and he deserves a break. One where he doesn’t have to deal with Dorian and his feelings. It’s something of a challenge. Keeping just enough distance between them that Dorian doesn’t risk doing anything stupid, without keeping so much distance that Bull thinks there’s something wrong. 

He waits Monday out too, rationalising that Mondays are enough of a challenge without Deep And Meaningfuls. Tuesday and Wednesday he waits out because he barely has enough time to eat lunch let alone psych himself up for a conversation.

* * *

Thursday, Dorian almost puts the conversation off again, after hearing Bull’s voice on the phone. For all that he’s clearly having about as shit a week as the last, the second the words “could we have a chat this evening” are out of Dorian’s mouth, Bull’s tone shifts. Careful and encouraging, like he’s trying not to scare Dorian off.

Dorian makes it home first that night. He’s not home particularly late, so it’s not exactly a surprise that he’s beaten Bull home, but he can’t quite decide if this is a good or a bad thing. If he’s grateful for the time to gather his thoughts and settle himself as he waits, or if he’s just working himself into more of a state. 

He writes, then carefully destroys (he’s learnt that lesson well enough thank you) three sheets of notes about what he wants to say, stage directions included, before giving up and accepting that he’s just going to have to wait and see how things shake out. 

He doesn’t like that at all.

The Iron Bull walks through the door roughly three quarters of an hour after Dorian does. Dorian is simply relaxing and reading a book and  _ not  _ waiting on Bull to return. The fact that he’s seated in line of sight to the front door is simply coincidence. 

Dorian is expecting tense. Tired. Probably a significant commitment to approachable (because the Iron Bull is just like that). However, the Iron Bull that works through the door however looks rather... relaxed.

“Hey,” he says, catching sight of Dorian, and while his look doesn’t quite make it to ‘grin’, it’s a genuine smile. 

“You’re in rather a good mood,” Dorian observes. On looking, Bull is flushed, a little sweaty. He very much does not look like a man who’s just walked out of the office.

“Better than I was,” Bull explains, emptying the pockets of his work clothes of his keys, wallet, and bright pink lanyard, dropping them onto the side table beside Dorian’s chair. “Had a shit of a morning. Thought of spending the afternoon on  _ paperwork _ made me wanna take the other eye out so I bunked. Went over to Krem’s for a bit. Needed a distraction.”

“I’m glad it helped.”

Bull smiles again, stretching. “Yeah, lemme go change then we can chat, yeah?”

“Yes, yes,” Dorian says, though Bull’s already got a foot on the stairs.

* * *

The important thing. The thing that Dorian wants on the record more than anything else, for posterity, is that he wasn’t snooping. No, snooping requires suspicion and for all it could look otherwise, Dorian didn’t have a hint of that in mind. Not least because there’s no room for it beside his own plans and rumination.

No. When Bull’s phone buzzes with an incoming text and Dorian turns to look at it, it has far more to do with habit and the human instinct to pay attention to anything bright and shiny than it does with any personal motivation.

**[17:49 | Krem-puff] u make it sound like hitting u with the feelings stick isnt fun for me as well haha**

Dorian stares at the screen until it turns back to black, his eyes not leaving the phone until he hears Bull’s steps heavy on the stairs. Turns back to his book and pretends not to notice until Bull is dropping into the seat opposite him.

He’s in soft pants and a v-neck tshirt that for once  _ isn’t _ criminally low cut, but nevertheless does a piss poor job of covering the bruise at the bottom of his neck. Dorian’s mind, which only moments ago was aflood with thoughts, is now empty of everything but Krem’s text and how  _ desperately _ he doesn’t want this to be a metaphor.

“Sooo...” Bull says, leaning back into the couch and propping his feet up, “what did you want to talk about?”

Oh. Right.  _ Talking _ .

Dorian swallows. “Uh... groceries.”

* * *

Dorian had, foolishly, text Felix with his intentions to Talk To Bull. He’d been rather proud of himself at the time and while it had seemed innocent enough then, proving to Felix that he would, in fact, be using his words. Had all gone to plan, this would have worked quite nicely. Dorian could have called him to crow about his successes, or gotten drunk and called to cry about his failures. Shit, even if he’d chickened out he could have called and admitted that and basked in the comforting familiarity of Felix gently berating him and helping work him back up to a second try.

Problem is, not one of those things quite managed to happen, and Felix, like any good friend, is waiting on a response. Dorian had even been daft enough to give him a  _ time _ . He gets a pass for the evening. Felix, presumably working on the assumption that an evening’s radio silence is rather a good thing, doesn’t call. 

Felix probably isn’t imagining his best friend sitting in his bedroom getting as miserably drunk as he dares with a 9AM start the next morning (which is still drunker than Dorian should be getting). Dorian’s even gone for the gin, figuring he’ll be miserable regardless.

Felix texts the next morning, as Dorian’s getting into his car.

**[08:33 | Felix Alexius] Soooooo......**

He glances at the screen before dropping his phone onto the passenger seat. It would be wrong to text while driving of course, and if he wants to get a decent parking space this morning he really needs to leave now. He’ll deal with it at work.

Leaving his phone in the car is only partially on purpose. 

* * *

By the time Dorian gets back  _ into _ the car that night, after a day rather helpfully filled with utter nonsense (the feud between Arcanum students had simmered down, briefly, only to spark back up again, and Dorian’s had to shut down two different betting rings among the staff about it), he has a good handful of texts and two missed calls from Felix. 

**[09:45 | Felix Alexius] come on, don’t leave me hanging**

**[10:20 | Felix Alexius] did it not go well? do I have to fight the iron bull?**

**[12:03 | Felix Alexius] are you okay?**

**[14:15 | Felix Alexius] text me back and tell me you’re okay**

**[14:31 | Felix Alexius] Missed Call**

**[14:33 | Felix Alexius] DORIAN**

**[15:10 | Felix Alexius] Missed Call**

**[15:28 | The Iron Bull] Bull says you’re probably fine but please call me when you get this**

**[15:32 | The Iron Bull] Missed Call**

Dorian groans, leaning back in his seat and dialling Felix’s number. It picks up on the second ring.

“I left my phone in the car,” Dorian says, before Felix can get a word in.

“... Are you okay?”

“Perfectly,” Dorian assures him, voice flat. There’s no point in pretending otherwise, “I just left my phone in the car. I’m sorry to have worried you.”

“You don’t need to be sorry,” Felix says, tone cautious, “I just want to know if you’re okay. Did something happen?”

“Nothing happened.”

Felix sighs. “What  _ kind _ of nothing?”

“The kind of nothing where he’s  _ fucking other people _ ,” Dorian spits. He regrets it immediately and sags a little further down in his seat. 

“I’m sorry,” he says again. “I didn’t mean to snap I’m just...”

“It’s okay,” Felix says, quiet.

Dorian rubs at his face. “You didn’t deserve that,” he says, “really. I truly am sorry about worrying you.”

“Did you talk?” Felix says, by way of forgiveness, “ Did you tell him?”

“No,” Dorian says, doing his best to keep the anger out of his voice, “but given he didn’t bother to tell me who he was sleeping with I’d say we’re even.”

“Then how do you...” Felix hesitates, “how do you know.”

“Can we talk about this later?” Dorian asks, unable to think of anything less appealing than rehashing that particular evidence. “Tomorrow maybe? I promise not to leave my phone anywhere.”

Felix obliges, of course. Despite how desperately curious he must be. Despite how worried Dorian’s made him. Despite how Dorian snapped. He is a far, far better friend than Dorian deserves.

“I really am sorry for scaring you,” Dorian says, “but thank you, for caring.”

“Always.”

* * *

Dorian takes the long way home, which in this instance means driving in entirely the wrong direction for ten minutes before slowly winding his way back towards the house. Bull’s almost certainly home already, so there’s no chance of sneaking in ahead of time and disappearing to his room. He considers visiting another friend. Sera perhaps, or Leliana. Maybe Cullen. 

Unfortunately, he doesn’t have the energy to pretend at being in good spirits, nor the interest in explaining why he’s acting like a nug crawled up his arse and died. If he’s lucky, maybe Bull will be busy or distracted with work.

* * *

He doesn’t seem to have a lot of luck these days.

The Iron Bull is not only home when Dorian gets there, but waiting for him. The kitchen table is set, and the scent of homemade pizza is wafting from the oven. Bull smiles when Dorian walks in.

“Hey big guy, hungry?”

“Yes,” Dorian says, because he is, and because this is a conversation he feels somewhat capable of having.

“Did Felix get hold of you?” Bull asks, once Dorian’s returned from dropping his things in his room, is reaching into the fridge for the bottle of wine he’d stashed there before work. “Called me earlier, seemed pretty worried.”

“I left my phone in the car. Called him back once I got the messages.”

Bull puts the hot tray he’s holding down on the stovetop and turns to look at him, almost as though he’s calculating.

“Bad day at work?”

“Yes,” Dorian says. It’s not even entirely a lie. He pours himself a generous glass, and drops into his seat, past caring that he looks like a sulky brat right now. 

They eat dinner in silence. Bull makes a few cautious attempts to prompt Dorian into discussion, to which Dorian offers a couple of monosyllabic responses then resorts to simply drinking in response to questions. It would be a thoroughly awkward affair if Dorian had it within him to care.

Dorian gathers up his dishes as soon as he’s finished, eager to have them washed and put away so he can retreat to his room for a night of enthusiastic wallowing. He might even call Sera and let her try and explain that awfully convoluted flash ‘comic’ she likes to him again.

He’s so damn busy trying to think about anything other than the Iron Bull and washing his dishes without making  _ too _ much noise (sukling he’ll admit to, but he’s not quite at the point of throwing a real tantrum. One must always leave room for escalation), that Bull, who frankly has no right whatsoever to be able to move as quietly as he does, is standing right behind him before Dorian even realises he’s left the table.

“You’re tense,” Bull says, close to Dorian’s ear, before laying his hands on Dorian’s shoulder (and he’s rather lucky to have picked that order, else Dorian might have reacted by using the knife in his hand rather than dropping it in surprise).

Dorian just nods. 

“What do you need?” Bull asks, and his voice is so carefully absent of expectation that Dorian finds himself turning in the small space between Bull and the kitchen bench so he can look Bull in the eye, find context.

“Space?” Bull suggests, when it becomes clear than Dorian won’t be providing his own ideas, “distraction?”

What Dorian  _ wants _ is to climb The Iron Bull like a tree. He wants to find out if Bull is as voracious and exceptional in bed as he claims to be. He  _ wants _ to have not read Krem’s text. He  _ wants _ to be a week in the past with hope in his belly.

What Dorian  _ needs _ is for this game to be over.

When Bull leans down, Dorian’s not actually sure what he’s going to do. Kiss him, maybe. Or whisper in his ear, or even just get further into his space. It’s a moot point, however, and when Dorian’s palm hits Bull’s chest, he barely needs any force.

Bull pulls back. Looks at him.

“I think,” Dorian says, ignoring the frown creeping into Bull’s expression, “that we should  _ both  _ be seeing other people.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh _Dorian_ , what are we gonna do with you?
> 
> I'm going to do my dangedest to get the next chapter ready for you all as soon as I can, hopefully now that I'm doing better progress will be smoother.
> 
> also, I hope this goes with out saying but Bull really shouldn't have been sharing that info about his patient with Dorian, please do not try this at home, or work.


	8. The Husband You're Not Sleeping With

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back! Thank you as always for your amazing comments and feedback. It really does make my whole day, and I'll admit, nothing makes you feel quite as powerful as knowing you made people halfway round the world furiously frustrated ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ 
> 
> I would say I'm here to apologise for all the stress I put you through last chapter with something sweet and funny and fluffy, but I'm not. There is sweetness, and humour and fluff, and of course drama, because this is Dorian Pavus we're talking about. 
> 
> There are two rather important things to note before you dive into this update:
> 
> 1\. There's some potentially triggering content in this chapter involving an original character trying to take advantage of another. I'll put more details in the end notes if you want to zip down there and check it out before you read.
> 
> 2\. The original character is named Roderick. He is **not** Chancellor Roderick from the game. I had in fact forgotten about his existence until _after_ I wrote this chapter, and I'm a stubborn binch who refuses to change it, so if you can't get His Worshipful Snootiness out of your head as you read this, I'm sorry.

The Iron Bull has barely seen Dorian since his ‘announcement’. Dorian’s been avoiding Bull, and Bull’s been avoiding Dorian, and their joint efforts have resulted in not spending more than about ten minutes in the same room.

It feels more purely avoidant than hostile, and from Bull’s point of view the distance is more about keeping his curiosity in check than it does with wanting to stay away. But, Dorian had made himself quite clear that he _didn’t_ want Bull, and despite the kick in the horns that that brought up he was still proud of the man for actually saying what he wanted, even if what he wanted was for Bull to leave him the fuck alone.

Okay, so there’s guilt in the distance too. Not much. Not enough that he needs Krem to get the feelings stick out twice in as many days, but enough that he spends most of Saturday on Krem’s couch deconstructing the past month as he looks for the point at which he fucked up.

(In the end, Krem kicks him off the couch and tells him that “trying to tie his shoelaces up with his teeth will only result in a bloody nose.”)

(Bull doesn’t have so much as a sliver of an idea of what that means, but the intention is clear.)

The week is easy enough to get through. They both work, and when they’re home Dorian stays in his room while Bull stays upstairs. They cross paths in the bathroom, or the kitchen and greet each other like assigned roommates.

Friday night Krem calls and catches Bull still working at eight in the evening, and almost exactly a week after Dorian had said the same thing, Krem tells Bull to get laid.

He rejects it at first, but the truth of the matter is that the past month has been one long sexual frustration party. Nothing he can’t handle on his own, of course, and no one’s fault but his own. Hell, when he’d been thinking that there might be a quite specific resolution to the problem, he’d been happy to wait.

It’s a way to reassure Dorian that Bull doesn’t expect anything from him, at least. A chance to blow off some steam.

* * *

And so the next night Bull finds himself sitting in a booth at a bar, surrounded by his boys with Isabela Hari practically in his lap. He hadn’t even been sure if she was in the country when he’d called her, let alone the city, but she had been, and there’s really no one better suited to Bull’s needs right now. 

She’s not into relationships, or even habits, but she gets along with his boys, and she gives as good as she gets. Bull will spend the evening with his friends, then go back to Isabela’s place, get thoroughly fucked and then they’ll watch late night infomercials on mute and substitute their own dialogue. It’ll be good.

Bull leans back in his seat, enjoying the comfort of his people close by, and relaxes. He doesn’t even feel the need to talk all that much tonight, just listens to his boys trying (and failing) to one-up Isabela with stories, and stepping in occasionally to call bullshit. And hey, if Isabela is making rather unsubtle excuses to have to lean across his body and shove her tits in his face every so often? Well, he’s not exactly opposed to the idea.

He’s not drunk - own alcohol-and-consent concerns aside - but he doesn’t really have it in him to walk all the way back to Isabela’s flat, and he really has outgrown the stage of his life where he can fuck outside (his knee would object to the chill if nothing else) so he’s the sober driver. Sober enough anyway- takes more than a couple beers to knock a qunari constitution. While the alcohol hasn’t really done much to his system, Bull is in that pleasant stage of the evening where, pissed or not, the drunk and jovial energy of the room is sinking in. 

Grim returns with another round and they move on to a fast escalating game of ‘never have I ever’. By the third question it’s bottoms up to ‘never have I been pegged’. Bull drinks, dutifully, and Krem squawks as Dalish kicks him under the table.

“What?” Krem says, attempting to look innocent as Dalish glares, “I’m the pegg- _er_.”

“Not the other weekend you weren’t.”

Bull reaches over to Dalish for a fist-bump and Krem sighs, obliges and then drinks.

“See now,” Isabela cuts in, “this raises a very important question - can men peg?”

* * *

Krem and bars didn’t go together so good the first few years after he and Bull met, and to be fair, Bull wasn’t all that keen on them either. Leaving Tevinter helped, as did finding safety in the numbers of the Chargers.

He might not spend the whole time on edge anymore, ready to jump as soon as someone comes near, but Krem is still wary. Always sits where he can watch the room. Bull doesn’t mind. Whatever keeps the the kid sane is fine by him, and it saves Bull having to swivel his head constantly. As long as Bull has an eye on Krem, he’s got a watch on the room by proxy.

The pegging debate is (somehow) devolving into a debate on the proper nomenclature of a cooled hot chocolate when Bull notices Krem’s gaze settling on something just out the corner of Bull’s peripheral. Nothing on his face speaks to alarm, so Bull leaves it be. Trusts Krem to tell him if he’s needed, and seconds Rocky’s argument for “cold chocolate”. When, a few moments late, Bull catches Skinner looking from Krem to Bull to whatever Krem’s looking at, Bull caves, and turns.

New Haven’s not a big city, but it’s not nearly small enough that Bull needed to worry about running into any particular someones. And yet, there Dorian is, standing at the bar. In leather pants and a sleeveless “shirt” and enough straps and buckles to qualify as someone’s high-fashion bondage daydream. 

Bull’s so busy looking at what Dorian’s wearing (and not wearing) that he doesn’t even notice that Dorian’s got company until the man puts a hand on Dorian’s lower back. 

“Oh my,” Isabela says, following Bull’s gaze, “am I looking at competition or a future collaborator?”

“Neither.”

“Really?” she raises an eyebrow, “you know I don’t mind sharing.”

“That’s Dorian,” Krem explains.

Isabela gives a low whistle. “That’s the husband you’re _not_ sleeping with?”

Bull nods. He’d given Isabela the gist of the situation when he’d called. She wouldn’t have necessarily minded either way, but context seemed important.

“Well,” Isabela admits “I can see why you need a distraction.”

She’s not wrong. Bull can’t take his eyes off of Dorian--though it’s not entirely down to how he looks (which is frankly criminal). Dorian’s clearly drunk, if his body language is anything to go by: loose-limbed and gesturing even more than usual, leaning into his date even as he tenses at touches he gets in return, like he’s surprised.

Bull doesn’t _like_ it, but it’s none of his shitting business. Dorian’s a big boy, and as much as Bull might be interested, Dorian clearly isn’t. He’s as entitled to be on his date as Bull is. They’ve both got other people to see.

“Never have I ever,” Bull says, turning firmly back to his friends “been too short to ride.”

* * *

Not looking is harder than it should be. Dorian’s so close to the edge of Bull’s vision that he barely has to turn to look, and the fact that Krem’s gaze keeps drifting that way is not making anything easier. Isabela, ever helpful, shifts herself completely onto his lap and seats herself so she’s just blocking Bull’s line of sight.

It works well enough and Bull manages a good twenty minutes of paying attention to nothing but his boys (and boobs. They're so close to his face it'd be rude not to).

“Chief,” Krem says, a whole twenty-one minutes later, and Bull doesn’t even need to ask. 

He turns, Isabela leaning helpfully out of the way. Dorian is turned away from his date, talking to someone - bartender possibly - leaning so far one foot is entirely off the ground, and Bull looks back to the date just in time to see him sprinkling something into Dorian’s drink.

Bull is too far away, would have been even if he was running already because as soon as the bastard’s hand is clear of Dorian’s drink, the fool is turning back, picking it up and drinking.

“ _Nug-fucking shit weasel_ ” Bull growls, shifting to stand, “sorry Iz, I gotta...”

“No hard feelings,” she says, before he can finish. Then she’s sliding off his lap with a wink

“Go get your man,” she says, kissing Bull on the check and pulling something small and sharp out from under her skirt.“Leave the other one to me.”

“You need help chief?” Krem says, and Bull turns to see that his boys are all watching him intently, most of them half out of their seats already

Bull shakes his head, “Nah. Unless things don’t go smooth,” he glances at Isabela, “just try and make sure she doesn’t get herself arrested.”

The walk from the table to the bar is all of ten seconds -- even accounting for the way Bull has to work to slip through drunk patrons -- and he needs everyone of those seconds to pull himself into a state approximating calm. 

Dorian has his back to Bull, but the shit-weasel is facing him, so Bull keeps his eye on the bar, and his gait relaxed, like he’s going up for more drinks, nothing to worry about. It works well enough that the nug-fucker doesn’t even notice his approach until Bull’s close enough to wrap his arm possessively around Dorian’s shoulders.

“Hey babe,” Bull says as Dorian startles and turns to look up at him, brow creasing in annoyance.

“ _What are you doing here,”_ Dorian hisses, though he makes no move to get out from under Bulls arm. Whether that’s because he has nowhere to move to or because he doesn’t want to cause a scene is anyone’s guess.

“I know I’m meant to be seeing the boys tonight,” Bull says, easy-like, “but Krem said I’m no fun when I’m moping and that we should come find you.”

It takes Dorian a long moment to process that, and then another for his alcohol soaked brain to confirm that what Bull’s saying is in fact, utter nonsense.

Prickle-dick makes a noise like a polite cough dialed up for the soundscape of a bar on a Saturday night.

“Excuse me,” Dorian says, turning back to him, “this is-”

“His husband,” Bull cuts in. He has no idea if the guy’s aware of _that_ tidbit, or if he’d even give a fuck, and Bull intends to milk the ‘possessive qunari husband’ thing for all it’s worth.

“The is Roderick,” Dorian says, icily, “we were in the middle of a conversation.”

“Nice to meet ya,” Bull says, not even trying to hide the teeth in his smile as Dorian wriggles a little.

“And you,” Roderick responds, though he clearly doesn’t mean it either. “Dorian, I-”

“Real sorry to interrupt,” Bull says, lying, like a liar, “but the others’re waiting for us.”

Dorian’s wriggling resolves itself into an elbow digging sharly into Bull’s flank. “How about I meet you later? _After_ I finish my conversation.”

“And leave a pretty thing like you to come looking for us all alone?” Bull says, looking down and raising an eyebrow. Dorian will almost certainly deny it, but he’s definitely blushing, and from more than his intoxication.

“I’m sure,” Roderick says, having apparently decided that he’s dumb enough to take on Bull, “that he’ll be perfectly safe.”

“Maybe,” Bull says, “but I just get so concerned.” He looks pointedly at Dorian’s glass, then at Roderick and then at the hand he’s tucked back into his pocket. “You never know when someone might get it in their head to take advantage.”

Roderick is still for a moment, eyes locked with Bull. Swallows. Looks away. Pulls out his phone. 

“It is getting late,” he says flatly, “enjoy your... Evening.”

Bull nods, and turns, half dragging Dorian with him. Dorian resists for the first few steps, and then gives in, stumbling along and hissing at Bull to ask ‘what the fuck he thinks he’s doing’ and ‘what the shit he thinks he’s doing’ and ‘Maker’s balls, Bull, _what the fuck?_ ’. Out of the corner of his eye Bull sees black and blue and gold as Isabela moves past.

“ _Bull!_ ” Dorian says, voice rising.

“Out. Side.” Bull says, layering on the authority as thickly as he can. Dorian’s had no experience with that voice, but he reacts all the same, mouth snapping shut as he allows Bull to lead him out of the building.

Once they hit the fresh air though, Dorian is squirming out from under his arm and out of Bull’s reach.

“What the titty-fucking luck are you doing!” Dorian demands (and Bull decides not to comment on _that_ ).

“Car’s this way,” Bull says, fishing his keys out of his pocket, and walking past Dorian. He makes it about seven steps before Dorian caves to his curiosity and follows. 

“What happened to ‘respecting my decisions’?” Dorian spits at him, “you have no right to say who I can or can’t go on dates with! Either sleep with me yourself or get your horns _out_ of my business.”

“That sounds uncomfortable.” 

“No _shit_. What are you even doing here? Are you stalking me?”

“I was on a date of my own actually. Ish. Until I had to come and save you.”

“Maker’s balls, Bull. I’m an adult and I can make all the dumb decisions I like. Not all of us are as precious about drinking and fucking as you are.”

Bull snorts.

“Bullshit. There were _dozens_ of drunk hook-ups about to happen in that building,” Dorian continues, “I don’t see you storming back in there to break up any of those. I’m from _Tevinter_ , I can smell a conspiracy when I see one.”

“What, the keep Dorian Celibate Conspiracy?”

“Why the fuck else did you do that?”

Bull stops, sharply enough that Dorian, only half a step behind and not paying all that much attention to his surroundings, stumbles right into him.

“He spiked your drink.”

Dorian just stares, blinking, until the sound of Bull’s car unlocking startles him.

“The boys really were there,” Bull says, moving in to push Dorian towards the passenger door, “Krem was the one that spotted it - you can thank him later.”

“He didn’t,” Dorian says.

Bulls not sure if he’s referring the the drink spiking or the drink spotting, but it amounts to the same thing.

“Yeah, he did.”

Dorian safely in the vehicle, Bull moves around to the other side. His phone chimes as he gets in, with a text from Isabela. A photo of a small bag of dried, crumbled, purple foliage, accompanied by a botanical name and a kissy face emoji.

**my hero** Bull texts back, **raincheck?**

**don’t make promises you can’t keep ;)**

“Whatever that means,” Bull mutters. The herb is familiar enough, but he runs a quick search just in case. He’s not sure why Roderick had decided to go herbal on this rather than pharmaceutical. Maybe he’s some sort of hippie, or maybe it’s just easier to get. Either way it shouldn’t do any real damage, even with the alcohol factored in.

Dorian’ll be out of it within the hour probably, and he’ll have a blinder of a headache in the morning, but his biggest danger right now is tripping over his own two feet and hitting his head. So long as Bull keeps an eye on him he’ll be fine.

“Y’alright?” Bull asks, turning to where Dorian’s sitting, unusually quiet in the passenger seat.

“I still don’t believe you,” he says, as Bull starts the car, but he makes no move to get out.

“Give it a few,” Bull says. So long as Dorian’s not fighting him, they have the luxury of being able to wait until it proves itself.

* * *

“I don’t think it’s very safe for you to be driving like that,” Dorian mutters, and Bull risks a glance over at him, leaning hard against the window.

“Like what, big guy?”

Dorian’s arm lifts and makes a wiggly motion before dropping back down to his side.

“I’m not,” Bull assures him, and looks over again to catch Dorian peeling one eye open to take in the road.

“Oh,” he says quietly, “ _oh._ ”

“Yep.” Bull says, reaching out and laying one hand on Dorian’s shoulder, “believe me now?”

“Rather,” Dorian says, and coughs a little.

They’re only moments away from home at this point, which is lucky because Dorian’s going rather ashen and clammy in a way Bull _really_ doesn’t like the look of. Dorian puking at this stage probably isn’t a bad thing, but Bull would really rather it didn’t happen in his car.

Bull pulls into the driveway as gently as he can, shoving his phone back in his pocket as he and walks around to help Dorian who is staying very firmly and intentionally still. The wash of cool air as Bull opens up the door seems to help, and Dorian is able to lift his head a little. 

“There we go,” Bull says, helping him undo his seatbelt and clamber out, swaying on his feet so much Bull has to prop him against the side of the car as he shuts the door and locks it, “let’s get you inside.”

He hesitates as he shuts the front door behind them. Dorian’s room is the obvious choice, and Bull can drag a chair in from the living room if he needs to, but there’ll be no way Dorian’s getting up those stairs fast if he needs the bathroom.

“Taking me to bed?” Dorian asks, once his brain has had a chance to process the fact they’re walking up the stairs, and then laughs weakly.

(Walking is a rather generous descriptor at this stage.)

“Something like that,” Bull agrees. He’s not sure what Dorian’s going to come out with, or what he’ll remember, and for all there’s a part of him eager to make the most of this and actually get a straight answer out of Dorian for once, the thought of taking advantage of this state, however well intentioned, makes his stomach twist. 

They pause for a moment at the top of the stairs, so Bull can take the weight off of his knee for just a moment and then half carries Dorian the rest of the way into the bedroom. About three steps from the bed Dorian figures out where he is and decides to scare the shit out of Bull for the second time that evening by launching himself out of his grip and onto the bed with a contented sigh.

“Huh,” Bull says, leaning over to roll Dorian so he’s not lying flat on his face, “Goin downstairs for a minute. Try not to suffocate or anything while I’m gone, yeah?”

Dorian wriggles one arm out from underneath himself and waves it around until he finds Bull’s cheek and pats it gently (or at least, as gently as a man in his state who’s not watching what he’s doing can achieve. Bull has to tilt his head slightly to get his eye out of range of Dorian’s fingernails).

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Bull says, and steps away.

He digs a large bowl out of the hall closest and leaves it on the table while he puts the kettle on, busying himself with making drinks (coffee for himself and electrolyte solution for Dorian). The clock on the oven blinks at him. Nearly midnight. He should have been back at Isabela’s place by now. 

Bull’s not _mad_ that he’s here instead, but he’ll admit to disappointment. Only briefly though. Thinking too long on what he might have been doing otherwise runs far too close to thinking about where _Dorian_ might have been otherwise, and _that_ thought makes him want to drive back to that bar and find whatever Isabela’s left of _Roderick_ and rip it to shreds. 

“Focus,” Bull says, loosening the grip he’s got on the back of the chair. Dorian’s home, and safe, and the best thing Bull can do right now is keep him that way. He gathers up his supplies and heads back upstairs, grabbing a towel out of the linen cupboard just in case. 

In the few minutes Bull’s been downstairs, Dorian’s managed to roll himself over onto his back and is lying there, spread eagle, staring at the ceiling.

“How you doing there?” Bull asks, setting the drinks down on the nightstand.

“Hmmm,” Dorian says contemplatively, “yes.”

“Fair enough.” Bull turns a small lamp on. Not enough that it’s going to startle Dorian, but just enough light for Bull to see by. 

He moves back over to Dorian, “you still with me?”

Dorian makes an unintelligible noise, but his eyes are following Bull when he moves.

“Gonna sit you up for a sec,” Bull says, getting one arm behind Dorian’s shoulder and lifting him up, “there we go. Let’s get some fluids in you.”

Dorian’s leaning heavily into Bull’s side, but he’s managing to stay sitting for the most part, and when Bull holds the electrolyte drink to his mouth Dorian manages to drink from it, if a little messily.

“Thanks,” Dorian says, a little slurred but clear enough, “fuck.”

“That about sums it up,” Bull says, and realises he’s started rubbing Dorian’s back without even thinking about it. He catches himself, stops, but Dorian makes a disgruntled noise he doesn’t even seem that aware of until Bull continues.

“You’re gonna be fine,” Bull continues, “a bitch of a hangover tomorrow, but you just need to sleep it off.”

Dorian sighs heavily and this, then reaches for one of the many buckles making up his outfit. 

“Yeah, that doesn’t look too comfortable,” Bull says, shifting out of the way a little as Dorian picks at it clumsily for a minute before giving up and flomping back onto the bed.

“Need some help?”

“Please.”

Bull starts with Dorian’s boots. Those are at least familiar, and the majority of the buckles are decorative. They take a bit of wriggling to get off, and unsurprisingly, even the socks underneath match the rest of Dorian’s outfit. Bull snorts but leaves them on (to save Dorian’s poor Northern toesies) and lines the boots up at the foot of the bed where no one can trip on them. 

Then it’s the buckle Dorian had been struggling with, moving from that to the next through guesswork and an occasional redirect from Dorian. It doesn’t take as long as Bull had anticipated before all of the accessories are piled neatly beside him. 

He might have left it at that and tucked Dorian into bed still dressed, if it weren’t for the fact that he’s wearing honest-to-the-maker _leather trousers_ , tight enough that Bull’s not even sure how he got them on. 

Bull rests a hand on Dorian’s leg and looks up at him, “hey, do you wanna take your-- are you taking a nap?”

“Mmmmmaybe,” Dorian mumbles then waves a hand in Bull’s direction, “you do it.” 

Bull hesitates, long enough that Dorian’s waving hand comes to Bull’s forearm and pets it gently.

“S’okay,” Dorian says. “Trust you.”

Well.

Getting Dorian’s leather pants off is almost as difficult as Bull imagines getting them on would have been. Dorian must have some special technique for this -- if the silky knickers he’s wearing are anything to go by, he was fully intending to show them off this evening -- but he’s not sharing, and so the pants-removal process involves a lot of wriggling and shimmying before Bull can finally pull them past Dorian’s ankles.

“There we go,” Bull says, giving up on folding and just throwing the pants in the approximate direction of the laundry basket. “Shirt as well?” It’s not as uncomfortable-looking as the pants, but there’s a damp patch on the chest where their electrolyte drinking coordination had gone awry; it’ll be sticky soon if it isn’t yet.

Nodding, Dorian shifts his arms above his head a little so Bull can get at the hem of his shirt and pull it off.

Now. The fact that Dorian has nipple piercings is not news to Bull. His Ben Hassarath days might be well behind him, but being observant isn’t a habit you fall out of, and Dorian is not what any rational person would describe as ‘body shy’. 

So yeah, while it isn’t a fact he dwells on, had you asked The Iron Bull if Dorian Pavus had nipple piercings he would have been able to answer ‘yes’ without even really thinking. Seeing the shining gold rings shouldn’t be any sort of surprise. And yet.

It’s probably, Bull tells himself, just that last time he’d noticed them, they’d been simply silver bars, and Bull had been a little preoccupied with trying to prevent Dorian tripping over his own furniture while his head and arms were trapped in his shirt.

(And okay, Dorian spread out on Bull’s bed wearing nothing but silky underwear and gold nipple rings is _not_ something Bull wants to be thinking about right now, thanks.)

He hadn’t thought to grab Dorian any clothes from downstairs, so Bull grabs one of his own tshirts and helps Dorian into it. It’s far too big and falls nearly to Dorian’s knees - he looks kinda sweet in it actually. Shirt on, Bull maneuvers Dorian into the bed, setting up a towel and bowl beside it, just in case, as well as more of the electrolyte drink and a bottle of water. 

Then Bull drags one of his comfortable chairs in from the study nook, picks out a book and settles in, close enough to Dorian that he can keep an eye on him. He probably doesn’t need to be watched the whole night - a few hours until he’s through the worst of it should be enough.

Dorian is quiet and breathing evenly enough that Bull thinks he’s asleep until one eyes opens and stares at Bull with a frown.

“What’re you doing over there?”

“Reading.”

Shaking his head as emphatically as he seems capable of, Dorian reaches out and grabs the closest part of Bull - which happens to be his knee. “Come to bed.”

“ _Dorian_ ,” Bull says, not even sure himself what he’s trying to warn him off of.

Dorian huffs in response, “I won’t _do_ anything.”

That’s not even close to what Bull’s worried about, but even drugged and drunk as he is, Dorian has that look in his eye that tells Bull that a fight is likely to be futile and will only stop Dorian from resting.

“Fine,” he says, putting a marker in his book and undressing, pulling on a pair of pyjama pants.

“It’s not fair,” Dorian says as, “you get to fuck around and I don’t.”

“My date got cut short just as much as yours, big guy.”

“ _Before_ that,” Dorian says petulantly, attempting to prop himself up on his elbows.

“What, before all of this?”

Dorian rolls eyes, swaying a little as he makes himself dizzy, “I know about Krem.”

Bull frowns, “you know what about Krem?”

Giving up, Dorian flops down onto his back. “I _wasn’t_ snooping,” he says, “your phone made a noise and I looked over. Didn’t even mean to read it.”

“Read what? What did you read about Krem?”

“That you fuuuucked,” Dorian says, as though he’s having to explain that the south is cold. 

Bull chokes a little. It’s not like he’s _opposed_ to the idea of sleeping with Krem in principle (or in the past), but it’s been a long time since that was a common occurrence, and it’s certainly not come up recently.

“Think you’re a bit confused right now,” Bull says as gently as he can, “we’ll go over this in the morning.”

“Lying isn’t very good communication.”

“Not lying. I haven’t fucked Krem. Not recently anyway.”

“I saw the text,” Dorian grumbles, “he seemed to enjoy _hitting you with the feelings stick_.”

It takes a surprisingly long moment for Bull to take what Dorian’s just said and make any sort of sense out of it, and when the pieces of that particular puzzle fall into place, Bull can’t help the laugh that comes out.

“You thought Krem referred to his dick as a _feelings stick_?” Bull asks when he has enough breath to do so, “I need to tell him that immediately.”

Dorian is doing his level best to glare at him. “You came home all sweaty and happy and hickies.”

“Yeah,” Bull says, “because I got him to hit me with the feelings stick. Literally. Not a euphemism.”

Dorian continues to stare.

Sighing, Bull reaches over to turn the lamp on. “It’s a qunari thing. When you get too freaked out and in your head about shit, you get someone to hit you with a stick until you feel better. Catharsis or some shit. Cassandra even did it to me once.”

Bull grabs the hem of his shirt and pulls it up over his head to reveal the bruises still littering his torso. They’re fading now, into greens and yellows and browns rather than the purples and blues of the week before, but still very much there.

Dorian’s frowning and doesn’t even seem to notice what he’s doing as one hand moves clumsily toward Bull and rests on one of the bruises on his chest, pressing gently against it, hurting it in an interesting way that Bull is trying _very_ hard to ignore right now.

They are going to have to unpack all of this at some point, and as much and Bull’s brain would quite like to spend the rest of the night pulling this apart, he needs Dorian clearheaded for that.

“You believe me?” Bull asks, as Dorian’s fingers trail over the bruises. He looks to Dorian’s face. He looks... relieved.

Bull puts a hand on Dorian’s shoulder, drawing his attention. “Believe me?”

Dorian nods, though it ends up more like a wobble, and he slumps back down against the pillows.

* * *

Bull tries to keep a respectable distance from Dorian, but even when he’s not drugged, he’s a cuddler. With inhibitions firmly absent, it’s almost impossible to keep him away. Bull reads for a couple hours, and even awake it’s hard to roll Dorian back to his side without waking him up. 

When Bull’s eyelids are drooping and the last of the adrenaline from the evening is wearing off, Bull gives up entirely and lets Dorian curl up against his side. It’s not that it’s a hardship to have him close, but even before all this misunderstanding, Dorian had always pulled away whenever he’d realised where he’d moved to in his sleep.

With any luck, Dorian will have forgotten this come morning, and it _is_ easier for Bull to let himself drift off when he can feel Dorian’s chest rising and falling under his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content details: Dorian goes on a date with an OC named Roderick at the same bar as Bull and the chargers who spot Roderick spiking Dorian's drink. Dorian drinks it before Bull can get there, but he intervenes and takes Dorian home and looks after him. The chapter is from Bull's POV rather than Dorians. 
> 
> If this doesn't sound like something you can read safely, please look after yourself and skip on through! I'm happy to provide a more detailed summary or answer any questions about the chapter - stay safe!


	9. The Opposite of Homesick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back! Apologies for the late update (I say as if I actually have a schedule) I completely lost track of the weeks there. This chapter almost wasn't going to exist on its own (just a few scenes shoved into the start of another) but it demanded to be written... and written... and then split into two chapters. Which is to say I'll probably be bumping up the total chapter count next update.
> 
> As always, thank you so much for your kind words and comments and kudos, they mean so, so much to me. I also beg your forgiveness for the pseudo-latin I've smashed together and pretended is Tevene. It's an entirely made-up plant so I had to start somewhere ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

It’s rather telling of just how much Dorian’s life has changed over the past couple of months that when he wakes up that morning, Dorian is less confused about being in The Iron Bull’s bed than he is about the splitting headache that wakes him.

For a breath Dorian simply lays there, waiting for the pain to subside enough for him to hear his own thoughts. It doesn’t fade as such, just simmers low enough for Dorian to actually begin feeling the  _ rest _ of his body.

He rather wishes it hadn’t.

It’s an unpleasantly familiar sensation that greets him, like nausea settling into bones and chalk squeaking under his skin. Though he shouldn’t, though he knows it will only make it worse, Dorian reaches for his magic, and the nothing he finds instead makes his whole body shiver as though someone had walked over his ashes.

Whatever fragments of rational thought Dorian has been clinging to slip from his grip as panic takes over. All his mind has room for is the fact that he’s in Bull’s bed, dosed and unable to reach his magic. Dorian pushes himself upright, throwing his legs over the side of the bed, a whine he can’t suppress escaping from him as doing so brings a wave of more standard nausea crashing over him.

Then Bull’s hand is on his shoulder, forceful, and Dorian scrabbles and resists and  _ fights _ until he realises that all Bull is doing is pushing Dorian’s head down between his knees.

“Hey,” Bull says, hand rubbing warm lines up and down Dorian’s back, “ _ easy _ . What do you remember?”

The bar comes to him first, as Dorian scrabbles in his head for memories. A date. Anger at Bull. Then his memories shift from looking like snippets of a movie he wasn’t paying attention to, to dreamy impressions. Bull changing his clothes, Dorian poking at bruises.

“You brought me home,” Dorian says, voice hoarser than he’d been expecting, “Roderick, er, he...”

“Yeah,” Bull says and there are some very tightly reined in emotions behind that word that Dorian will be interested in later.

Dorian has had some bad dates in his time, but he’s not sure he’s ever had one of quite this caliber. Inexplicably, the thought of it makes him laugh, a raw sound that shakes his ribs and his throat and cuts out quickly as his shivering bones protest.

“What did he give me?” 

Bull reaches for something - his phone perhaps, “ _ urtica bacchus _ ,” he says, and hold his phone where Dorian can see it. There’s a picture of some powdered leaf material. Familiar enough even though Dorian can only look at it a moment before the light begins to make his head throb.

He makes a noise that was intended as a laugh but sounds more like a cough.

“You know it?” Bull asks.

“Yes, do you?”

“Enough to know you didn’t need a hospital,” Bull explains, “that and teenagers like to fuck themselves up with it.”

“You know what they call it in Tevinter?” Dorian asking, tilting his head carefully in Bull’s direction, “ _ magumfel canis. _ ”

“I didn’t know dogs could be mages,” Bull says, and Dorian has to fight to stop himself rolling his eyes.

“It’s a reference to the fact that the stuff grows primarily in Ferelden,” Dorian explains, slowly, “Real madebane isn’t easy to get, and every year there’s a few students at the Circle who try and grow some  _ canis _ in their rooms spike their opponents with before finals.”

“Shit,” Bull says, “did he know you were a mage?”

“Maybe,” Dorian says, trying to dig through his memories without making his head throb, “probably.”

“That explains the herbal route then. It hurts?”

“‘Hurt’ is a rather unambitious word for what I’m currently feeling, but yes.”

“Never heard about this,” Bull admits.

“It’s not as potent as the real thing,” Dorian admits, trying to swallow down the bile that’s gathering, “but I’ve had the opportunity to become sensitised to magebane in all its forms.”

Bull is quiet a moment. “Doesn’t sound like something you’d do willing.”

“Correct.” Now that Dorian’s gone and led the conversation here, he’s realising just how much he doesn’t want to be having it, at all, and certainly not right now, while his magic’s just as far out of reach as it was--

Dorian shuts his mouth firmly and hopes that Bull will take the hint.

He does of course, because he’s Bull. Lets the topic drop and reaches instead to grab a glass of worryingly orange liquid, passing it to Dorian and staring until he sips at it. It’s disgustingly sweet and unpleasantly salty, but it’s colder than Dorian had expected, and somehow that makes it just tolerable.

“There anything that helps?” Bull asks, once Dorian’s drunk enough to satisfy him.

“Nothing we have access to other than time.”

* * *

Bull helps Dorian through to the bathroom. He stays outside the door, and he doesn’t carry Dorian so much as walk beside him just in case. Dorian hates it, and grumbles about it loudly, but doesn’t put any  _ real _ effort into objecting. This might be a blow to his (admittedly already well-ransacked) pride, but falling on his arse would be worse.

Bodily functions taken care of, and teeth brushed, Dorian heads back to the bed.

“Hungry?”

“Not yet.”

Bull nods, “I’ll go get some stuff ready for when you are. You okay up here?”

Dorian nods, waving him away and sinks back into the pillows. Bull’s presence is certainly a comfort, but his whole body hurts and he needs a minute to let himself feel just how winded and terrified and embarrassed he actually is without an audience.

* * *

Dorian doesn’t make it back to sleep. Not all the way. He dozes, drifting close enough that he starts to lose minutes, finds himself tangling with dreams, all without really losing consciousness.

By the time footsteps on the stairs rouse him fully to wakefulness, Dorian honestly has no idea what time it is. The light coming in through the window that Bull’s left uncovered (only the one, bless him) hasn’t changed enough for Dorian to have slept the whole day away, but his mouth is dry enough to convince him that he hasn’t just now drifted off.

Dorian’s so busy thinking about what time it is that he doesn’t pick up on the fact that the approaching footsteps aren’t anywhere near heavy enough to be Bull’s.

“Goodness.”

Dorian starts, snatching the covers up to his chin as he looks over to the door.

“Vivienne!” he says, trying not to sound too startled by her appearance, though his body language has almost certainly given that game away.

“Relax my dear,” Vivienne says, walking over to sit at the end of the bed, “I have no illusions about your ability to entertain right now.”

“That’s... good to know,” Dorian replies, letting the blanket drop, “may I ask why you’re here?”

“The Iron Bull called me. Said that you had fallen victim to some herbal misadventures.”

She’s not wrong.

“ _ Urtica bacchus _ ,” Dorian explains, “also known as-”

“ _ Magumfel canis _ ” Vivienne finishes, “unpleasant and in some cases,” she pauses and looks at Dorian sadly, “rather harmful.”

Dorian only nods. He has no idea if Bull has told her about his sensitivities, or she’s merely picked it up herself from the way Dorian looks (he’d refused to check in the bathroom earlier but he can feel his moustache drooping pathetically).

“May I?” She asks, raising one hand.

Dorian nods, and Vivienne reaches forward, laying her palm on his chest. A soft blue light gathers under it, humming and sinking into his skin before emanating outward until Dorian’s entire body is gentle and cool.

Vivienne’s magic is precise as it thrums through him. Dorian hasn’t experienced another person’s spell in a very long time, but it’s not an unfamiliar sensation. He’d known Vivienne to be an accomplished mage, but there is something about feeling someone’s magic in your bones that really separates the exquisite from the clumsy.

“Stay still,” Vivienne says, giving Dorian only a brief moment to brace himself before there is a sensation like every pore on Dorian’s body yawning all at once. It’s overwhelming and not entirely pleasant but there is a sense of satisfaction when it ends.

“You may want to wash up,” Vivienne says, withdrawing her hand, and she’s not even slightly out of breath.

She is, as is to be expected, right. Dorian’s skin feels unpleasantly sticky, like he’s covered in a layer of prickling sweat.

“The toxin should have been expelled from your system,” Vivienne explains, “but the effects will take longer to wear off.”

“Thank you,”

Vivienne reaches into her purse and pulls out a small bottle. Blue glass with a paper label written in Vivienne’s clear and elegant hand.

“Lyrium,” she says, handing it over, “buffered with royal elfroot.”

Dorian takes the bottle from her gingerly. He’s not had  _ access _ to lyrium in years, let alone tasted it.

“I don’t know what to say,” Dorian says, honestly. Even forgetting the expense of the bottle in his hands, he can’t imagine the efforts it must have taken to obtain the stuff here in Ferelden, let alone part with it.

“Thank you is plenty my dear,” Vivienne says, “The lyrium should help you regain your mana, and the elfroot will help prevent it from surging. It will still take you a few days to recover.”

Dorian nods, swallowing hard. The last time he’d been in this position he’d had none of this. It’d been weeks before he’d really felt himself again (though spending most of that time on a blighted boat hadn’t helped either).

“I’m certain you’re aware,” Vivienne continues, “but you must try to avoid using your magic until you are fully recovered.”

“Of course. Not that I’m allowed to anyway.” Even though he knows this, he does appreciate the reminder. It’s rare that Dorian casts a spell these days, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t find himself gathering power in his palms in moments of stress. To remind himself it’s still there more than anything else. Resisting that urge while he recovers will be difficult.

“When you are recovered,” Vivienne says, cutting neatly into Dorian’s rumination, “you’re welcome at the villa any time. I do enjoy your company and the land is quite... private.”

“Thank you.”

Vivienne nods, and stands. “You are quite welcome. Now, I shall be off.”

“I appreciate your visit.”

She waves him off, and pauses at the door, “I don’t require the... details of what happened,” Vivienne says, fixing Dorian with a stern look, “and I am pleased The Iron Bull called for my assistance, but do try not to scare him like that again.”

She leaves before Dorian has a chance to ask exactly what that means.

* * *

Vivienne’s spell feels as though it’s burnt off any lingering alcohol along with the magebane, and after a mouthful of buffered lyrium Dorian feels able to take on the suggested shower.

The hot water is a relief, washing away the sticky residue on his skin that’s now beginning to itch, and soothing muscles he hadn’t even had a chance to realise were aching. Dorian’s confidence in his own energy levels fades quickly, and he’s grateful for the bench Bull has installed in the shower.

Previously Dorian’s only ever used it for propping his leg up on while... maintaining his personal grooming situation. Now he is coming to appreciate it far more than he had ever anticipated, sitting when the hot water and steam starts to make him lightheaded.

When Dorian makes it out of the bathroom, there’s a set of clean pyjamas folded neatly on the end of Bull’s bed. He pulls them on and considers for a moment trying to make his way downstairs.

Before he has a chance to attempt what would admittedly have been a bad idea, Bull makes his way to the top of the stairs, carrying an honest-to-the-maker tray with coffee and orange juice and  _ egg sandwiches _ .

“How’s your memory doing?” Bull asks, after setting the tray down over Dorian’s lap.

“About as well as can be expected,” Dorian admits, reaching for the coffee he hadn’t even realised he wanted until it was in front of him.

Bull sits quietly and lets Dorian make a start on his breakfast. “Do you want the details?”

Now isn’t that a question? There is a part of Dorian that would quite like to say ‘no thanks’ and write the past 24 hours off as yet another bad decision to be purposefully not remembered. Another, more mature part of Dorian is gently reminding him that whatever did happen last night is going to have consequences, and he’ll be far better prepared to deal with said consequences if he has a solid idea of what happened.

“Yes,” Dorian says, masking his hesitation with another sip of his coffee.

Bull takes a moment, like Dorian’s answer has taken him by surprise. Then he talks Dorian through the past night like he’s giving a report. Calm. Facts, details, chain of events. Bull doesn’t sound cold, just clinical.

Dorian just listens. Some bits -- Bull’s evening,  _ Isabela _ \-- are new, things Dorian didn’t know in the first place. Then there’s the bits Dorian does remember -- Bull crashing his date, walking Dorian out to the car. He remembers that, though not as well as he should, and not from that angle.

“Brought you upstairs,” Bull says, and this is the point where Dorian’s memories start to slide, “closer to the bathroom.”

Dorian nods, it’s sound logic. Bull pauses though, steady beat of his retelling shuddering to a halt. Dorian raises an eyebrow, not certain that speaking will help.

“Got you undressed,” Bull continues, “you said it was fine, not that you were in any state to give me that decision.” Bull’s voice goes tight at the end there. If he hadn’t said anything, Dorian wouldn’t have even given Bull undressing him a second thought. He’s well aware of what he woke up wearing, and while many things from the last 24 hours was blurry, Dorian’s recollection of his outfit the night before is not, and it’s also not an outfit that would have been comfortable to sleep in.

“Given that you’re contractually obliged, as my friend, to look after me when I’m off my face,” Dorian says, “I think you were well within rights.”

He’s not sure, but Dorian thinks Bull’s shoulders drop just a little.

“You refused to go to sleep with me in the chair,” Bull continues, his tone loosening a little, and Dorian cringes.

“Then we cleared up the Krem thing.”

“The Krem thing?” There’s only one flash of memory from the night left unaccounted for, and Dorian’s starting to have a rather uncomfortable inkling of what that’s about.

In a movement that is... expectedly familiar, Bull pulls off his shirt, baring a torso covered in fading yellow-green bruises.

“The feelings stick is literal,” Bull reminds him, “qunari thing. Get emotions, get someone to hit you with a stick. Very cathartic.”

“ _ Please _ ,” Dorian says, covering his face with his hands, “don’t tell Krem.”

“That you thought he called his dick a feelings stick?”

Dorian nods with a groan.

“A little late on that one, sorry.”

* * *

Vivienne is good to her word. The lyrium helps, even with the small sips Dorian allows himself. Bull keeps up with the more mundane electrolyte solutions, and while Dorian does end up spending most of the day in bed, it’s not at ghastly as he’d expected.

He spends the night in Bull’s bed again, and neither of them comment on it.

Monday morning Dorian wakes up at ten to find the house empty, his alarm clock unplugged and a note from Bull assuring him that work knows he’s off sick and that he’ll sort out the medical certificate. Dorian spends the next few minutes cursing Bull under his breath, muttering to himself and drafting shitty texts before he has to admit to himself that just  _ maybe _ he’s less frustrated with Bull than he is with the itch of missing magic in his bones.

Given that work almost certainly knows he won’t be in by now, it would only cast suspicion to change the story, Dorian decides he may as well acquiesce to the enforced convalescence. As he refuses to watch daytime television on principle, he instead fetches his laptop and settles in for a day of watching a professional chef attempt to recreate all sorts of ghastly Ferelden ‘snacks’.

When Bull arrives home, he seems rather pleased to find Dorian still in bed. 

“Feeling any better?” he asks, flicking on the lights to counter the dim that Dorian hadn’t even noticed, and stripping off his work gear.

“Some,” Dorian admits. He doesn’t feel  _ good _ , and he’ll never admit it, but he’s feeling far better than he would have had he gone into work.

“That’s good,” Bull says, pulling out a pair of sweatpants, and sitting down beside Dorian to put them on, a sure sign that his knee is playing up again. Dorian has to stop himself reaching out to touch it. Even if he had his magic back, even if he was allowed to use it, and  _ even if _ Bull wouldn’t object to Dorian bringing a little magical warmth to the joint, it’s far too intimate a gesture for far too soon a moment.

“I think,” Bull says, either not noticing Dorian’s internal struggle, or politely not acknowledging it, “we need to renegotiate a little.”

It takes Dorian a long moment (that he will publicly blame on the magebane and privately blame on the fact that Bull is shirtless) to puzzle out what exactly Bull is talking about. 

“Renegotiate  _ what _ exactly?” Dorian asks.

“Us,” Bull says, kindly pulling on a shirt, “and other people.”

He’s right of course, not that that makes things any easier.

“I get the feeling,” Bull says, easy, as though he’s come into this conversation knowing he’d have to carry the load of it (and there’s a little sting of shame in Dorian’s chest at that), “that when you said we should be seeing other people, I wasn’t getting the full story.”

“That’s a fair assessment.” Dorian says, closing the laptop and pushing it aside. “I was angry,” he admits. It’s not something he’s particularly keen on sharing, but it’s also not something Bull’s entirely unaware of. 

“About Krem?”

“I thought you were lying about it,” Dorian amends, because that at least he has a right to be angry about, however misinformed.

“That’s fair,” Bull says, and Dorian is pleased to not see any sign of guilt in his face, “let’s scratch that then. Clean slate.”

“What does that look like exactly?” 

Bull shrugs. “You know me, I’m easy,” he says, throwing in a ‘wink’. Dorian just shakes his head.

“I mean it,” Bull continues, “I’m down for whatever. We can keep things the same, we can change it up -- I’m happy either way.”

Somehow, Bull not caring manages a little worse than wanting to see someone else would have. 

“That seems unbelievably altruistic,” Dorian notes.

“I went into this with my eye wide open as much as you did,” Bull assures him, “wouldn’t have married you if I didn’t think I could handle it.”

Dorian presses his lips together. For all that Bull is really being rather generous, and for all Dorian’s quite certain he means what he says, he’s only gone and lumped the entirety of the decision in Dorian’s lap, which is not something his track record really merits. 

Seeing other people right now doesn’t seem fair on anyone, “other people” included. Nor does it seem to be something Dorian can be trusted with. Continuing as they are seems... unfair on Bull at least, and the option Dorian really wants probably isn’t on the table right now.

“Hey, big guy,” Bull says, after Dorian’s spent far too long in his own head, “I don’t need an answer right now. Think on it.”

Dorian nods, swallowing hard. He’s not so sure that time is going to provide anything other than the opportunity to twist himself into an emotional gordian knot, but perhaps a few more days of elfroot and a little more distance from his own Bad Decisions will help.

Bull smiles at him, weary but genuine, and pats Dorian’s thigh under the covers before hauling himself upright. 

“Hungry?” Bull asks, ever considerate of Dorian’s needs, whether they be sustenance or a break from difficult conversations.

And Dorian is hungry, despite the way his stomach is still rolling, so he nods, and clambers out of the bed to follow Bull downstairs. He’s not really in a state to help, not that Bull would let him, but there’s something to be said for company at least.

* * *

It takes a good three days before the effects of the magebane start to wear off. Dorian wakes up Wednesday morning (Bull’s bed, still) to movement and cursing and peels his eyes open to see Bull half off the bed, clutching at his left pec.

A long few seconds pass before Dorian connects the dots between the sight in front of him and the tingling static in his fingertips.

“ _ Kaffas-  _ fuck, sorry!” Dorian says, pushing himself upright and shaking his fingers, “I haven’t done that in  _ years _ .”

He scrambles across the bed and when Bull doesn’t pull back, Dorian moves Bull’s hands out of the way to check the damage.

“Just a shock,” Bull says, giving an uneasy laugh, “had worse off the car.”

Bull insists he’s alright, no damage done, but Dorian keeps his distance all the same. Much of Dorian’s magical skill has... lapsed in the time since he’s left Tevinter, but one thing that has only gotten better is his self control. 

Extraordinary circumstances, he tells himself, factors beyond his control.

Nevertheless, Dorian keeps his distance from Bull as they get ready, and shoves the last of the lyrium potion deep into the bottom of his drawers.

Thanks to their  _ shockingly _ early start (living with the Iron Bull must be rubbing off on him), Dorian has plenty of time to get ready - fortunate given that the static humming through Dorian’s body hasn’t limited itself to shocking his bedmate and results in Dorian spending 45 blasted minutes trying to get his moustache under control.

* * *

“I might have dinner with the girls tonight,” Dorian says at breakfast, dumping his now flaming piece of toast into the sink and running the tap over it. He hadn’t  _ meant _ to set the damn thing on fire. Hadn’t  _ meant  _ to cast a spell at all. It had happened like a reflex, his body so delighted by the fact that it  _ could _ that it didn’t stop to think if it  _ should. _

“Yeah,” Bull says, standing back and clearly trying rather hard  _ not _ to react, “might be good.”

Not that Dorian’s planning on doing any magic over there -- that would be illegal -- but if he  _ were _ to cast a few small, discreet spells among a few friends who were a little more comfortable with magic, it might make it easier not to  _ accidentally set things on fire  _ in front of his rather magic-averse roommate/friend/husband.

It’s not just the magic that Dorian needs to get out either. In the days since Bull’s Question, Dorian has had plenty of time to think, and not a blighted person to talk through it with. He’s not quite that close with his workmates, and no matter how valuable his conversations with Felix are, he has, through no fault of his own, a rather limited and Dorian-centric view on matters.

If Dorian is going to make a decision that ends well for once, he needs more information.

* * *

He doesn’t think they know the details, but it’s clear that some version of the story of Dorian’s Saturday night has made its way around their friend group. He doesn’t mention the magebane or the recovery of his magic when he texts them, but the hugs he receives walking through Herah and Josephine’s front are enough tighter than usual for it to be clear that they know something’s going on. 

When he mentions accidently setting his breakfast on fire and doesn’t get more than a raised eyebrow Dorian decides he can assume them as informed as they need to be. Josie ushers them back into the kitchen so they can talk while she finishes dinner.

It smells wonderful, as Josephine’s cooking always does, and when Dorian’s fingers start to twitch again, air shimmering around his fingertips as he tries to smother the instinct to perform just one small spell, just to assure himself that he can, Josie gives him a considered look, hands him a heatproof jug of sauce and tells him to keep it warm. 

“Ah-” Dorian says, or rather starts to say. He’s not allowed to do magic. They all know that, and while yes Dorian might have done a few  _ very little _ things that were technically in Josephine’s eyeline, he never left her with anything less than plausible deniability. Never acknowledged, never  _ encouraged _ .

Herah just winks and claps Dorian on the shoulder. “She doesn’t break the rules for just anyone, you know.”

Dorian’s not sure whether she’s achieved it through research, or just good instincts and resourcefulness, but it’s more grounding than he could have expected, palms hovering just on the far side of comfortable as Dorian channels the tingling in them into something productive.

It occurs to him, as he takes a seat at the table and reluctantly places the sauce in the centre of it, that no matter how mundane, this has been the first magic he’s intentionally and willingly cast in perhaps years.

Both Herah and Josephine keep up conversation diligently, forgiving Dorian his distraction, and it’s not long before he’s drawn in easy enough to conversation, helping Herah tease work stories out of Josephine, and providing his own updates of the ongoing saga of Dorian’s own workplace (the blood feud between the Arcanum students had, as expected, expanded to include the entirety of the university faculty as well).

Dinner finishes and Dorian helps with the dishes while Josephine tries to wave him off and Herah gleefully pushes the pots in his direction.

“Dorian is a  _ guest _ ,” Josephine protests, and Herah snorts in response.

“He is not, he’s family, aren’t ya Dorian?” she says, wrapping an arm around his shoulder.

“I like to think so,” Dorian admits, and lets himself enjoy the contact. It’s not like he’s been bereft of touch lately, but it’s been a while since he’s experienced physical affection he  _ doesn’t _ turn himself inside out trying to decipher.

“There you go!” Herah says, “Dorian’s family, and family do the dishes!”

When Dorian looks over his shoulder at her, Josephine’s going red in the ears, eyebrows pinched in a frown.

“Truly Josephine,” Dorian says, taking pity, “I don’t mind. Having you cook  _ and _ clean for me would make me feel as though I were in Tevinter.”

“Are you not a Vint yourself?”

“Well yes, but,” Dorian says, thinking, “is there a word for the opposite of homesick in Common?”

* * *

Kitchen cleaned, the three of them retreat to the lounge, to watch a kitchen full of competent chefs brought low by a jelly bean. They all end up on the Comfortable Couch, despite the extra seating, and before the first episode even ends they’re a tangle of limbs, Dorian’s head in Herah’s lap and his legs thrown over Josephine’s. 

“Are all qunari this touchy?” Dorian asks as Herah’s fidgety fingers move through his hair. Her hand freezes as though she’s been caught doing something wrong.

“Don’t  _ stop _ ,” Dorian says, patting her knee. 

Herah snorts, and continues petting his hair. “You’re basically a cat, you know that?”

“Cats are elegant and admirable creatures.”

“True,” Herah admits, “I dunno though, about qunari. You’d be better off asking Josephine.”

Dorian turns so Herah can fully appreciate his eyebrow raising, he raises his hands to gesture at her horns, “am I hallucinating these?”

“I’m vashoth,” she says, “it’s different. Ask Josie, she’s spent more time in Par Vollen than I have.”

Pushing himself up to sitting, Dorian turns his gaze on Josephine, “you  _ what _ ?”

“She worked in the Antivan embassy,” Herah says as Josephine’s cheeks turn a little pink.

“How did I not know this?”

“It was only for a year and a half,” Josephine protests.

“Still spent more time around Qunari than I have,” Herah points out, “ _ and _ you’ve studied Qunari society. I’ve read your thesis _. _ ”

Josephine’s face is scrunched up, like she’s not sure whether to be proud of herself or dismissive.

“Go on  _ Doctor _ Montilyet,” Dorian says, leaning back against Herah’s chest. “In your expertly educated opinion, are all Qunari this touchy?”

“Not towards  _ bas _ , typically,” Josephine admits, “so I say this from theory rather than... experience.”

“But they are?”

“Qunari views on relationships are rather... different to those of other cultures. Traditionally speaking, romantic relationships didn’t exist -- or at least they were not acknowledged.”

“They are now?” Dorian asks.

“More than they were, but not entirely.”

“That’s why my folks left,” Herah says, “wanted to live somewhere they could be together in peace, raise a kid together.”

Josephine’s hand reaches out to rest reassuringly on Herah’s leg. “without the focus on romantic relationships,” she continues, “the lines about what’s acceptable in other relationships is... more lax. Actions have fewer implications.”

Ah, right.

Dorian forces his facial expression into something resembling interest. “I can see the appeal,” he says, and he’s not even lying, “in Tevinter friends can barely embrace in public without causing a scene. This is much better.”

Herah’s phone buzzes on the arm of the couch, emitting a custom fart noise text tone that Dorian assumes corresponds to Sera.

“Oh right!” Herah says, glancing at her phone and then back at Dorian, “are you and Bull free on Saturday night?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couple of points:
> 
> 1) the Jurassic Park reference was not actually a Jurassic Park reference when initially written by my darling partner and beta insisted that it become one. Feel free to thank them.
> 
> 2) as is habit, I have included a few references to media I actually enjoy -- in this case Gourmet Makes which i watched a lot of while I was home sick with shingles. I wrote this prior to finding out the extent and specifics of the racism that is and was rampant at BA. 
> 
> I've decided to stop monetarily supporting BA, which means not watching their videos, and I would strongly encourage you to do the same. If you really want your gourmet makes fix, I would suggest either finding a way to watch them that doesn't provide BA with ad revenue, or seeking out content that directly supports Sohla and the other people of colour at BA who risked themselves and their careers to bring this to light and try and change things.


	10. Not My Fault You Weren't Paying Attention

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! I'm not quite sure how it's been a month since the last update so thank you all for sticking with me. This chapter is, as my nbbf pointed out, essentially a beach episode on rollerskates. With some feelings added in because let's be honest, we're all here because we enjoy suffering, right?
> 
> So while this is a fun chapter, I would recommend that if you're prone to device throwing (you know who you are) that you either switch to a device you can't throw, or set up a nice soft landing spot for it. 
> 
> Also, I seem to have Mandela-effected myself into believing that it was Bull's knee that's the issue (canonically). Apparently it's actually his ankle but ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ this is fanfiction i do what i want.

When Herah had informed him that they were planning on putting Sera ‘Here-To-Cause-Problems-On-Purpose’ Korse on  _ rollerskates _ , Dorian had assumed she’d been taking the piss. Alas, showing an uncharacteristic lack of common sense, their friend group at large had not only  _ allowed _ Sera to don rollerskates, they’d encouraged it, and a number of them had actually opted to join her.

Dorian agrees to attending the ‘roller derby’ game the way one might accept an invitation to watch a gaggle of hyperactive nugs being let loose in the magisterium -- almost certain that it will end badly in a way that deserves it’s own comedic soundtrack.

**come early, yeah?** Sera had responded when Dorian had text her to let her know that both he and Bull would be in attendance,  **u can put my face on.**

Dorian packs his eyeliner and prays that she’s not being literal.

Bull, being more familiar with the sport Dorian (he deals with a few roller derby injuries apparently) is rather excited about the whole thing. Dorian had intended to look the sport up, he really had, but things had gotten the better of him, and he’d managed nothing more than a baffling list of image search results and a  [ 71 page PDF ](https://static.wftda.com/rules/wftda-rules.pdf) that he gave up on understanding almost immediately.

From the outside, the venue looks like an old warehouse. From the inside, it also looks like an old warehouse, albeit one that is being rapidly transformed into something resembling a sporting venue. Bull makes it a half dozen steps into the building before he spots someone struggling to set up a block of bleachers and volunteers himself for hard labour. 

Dorian, thankfully, has a rather pressing engagement in the so-called dressing room. He finds it by following Sera’s voice, and lets himself in. There’s a dozen women in various states of dress, and not a one of them so much as flinches at Dorian’s presence. Must be a sport thing.

Sera hollers when she sees him and Dorian’s glad to note that she is not yet wheeled, so the force of her body crashing into his as she comes in for a hug merely winds him instead of knocking him flat on his ass. 

“C’mon fancy pants,” she says, dragging him over to her things, finishing putting on the shirt she’d abandoned when she ran over to him.

“Here!” Sera says, shoving an open toolbox full of cheap, brightly coloured and somewhat worse for wear makeup into Dorian’s hands. Sera has a pronounced lack of respect for microbiology, particularly in the area of leftovers, and her body has yet to suffer for it, so hopefully that will extend to topical experiments also.

Regardless, Dorian’s glad to have brought fresh eyeliner.

“What sort of look are you going for, exactly?” Dorian says looking around the room to see if anyone else has started.

“Just, y’know,  _ grrrrrrr _ ,” Sera ‘explains’, crunching her face up furiously.

“I don’t think you need makeup to achieve that my dear.”

Sera rolls her eyes. “Just make me look intimidating,” she says, “but also hot. And gay. Like I’m a fierce warrior, here to steal yer pants, kick ya in the nuts and run of with your woman.”

“That’s awfully specific.”

Sera ignores him and reaches into her backpack to pull out an armful of yellow and black fake fur. Dorian can do nothing but stare as it untangles to reveal a pair of striped leg warmers.

“Maker help me.”

* * *

In the end, Dorian does Sera up in black on gold. Thick, black stripes that go out from her eyes, and an inevitable explosion of gold glitter above and below, black lips to coordinate. Dorian doesn’t have enough familiarity with roller derby makeup norms to judge himself off of, and he has no idea if any of it will last more than a few minutes (there’s a distinct funky smell coming off of the gear being unpacked around him that’s suggesting that roller derby is a sport that involves a lot of sweating), but Sera’s happy with it, and Dorian has to admit she does look ready to kick ass and take ladies.

He borrows a mirror off of one of the other women and shows Sera. She grins, pulls a face and then leans over to leave a tacky, highly pigmented kiss on Dorian’s cheek. Satisfied with her own handiwork, Sera gets to her feet (skates still thankfully handing around her neck) and dances out of the room.

Dorian shakes his head at the sight of the her bumblebee legs and turns back to gather up the makeup.

“ _ Kaffas _ !” Dorian yelps, as he finds Leliana sitting in this exact spot Sera had been occupying a moment before, “would you mind making some noise when you move?”

“I did,” Leliana says, doing an admirable job of keeping her face straight, “it is not my fault that you weren’t paying attention.”

Leliana reaches past Dorian and into the toolbox full of makeup, fishes out a container of purple glitter, and hands it to him. 

“Same again?” Dorian asks, nodding in the direction Sera had disappeared in. 

“If you like.”

* * *

“I didn’t realise you played,” Dorian says, as a now well-anointed Leliana laces on a pair of skates and glides along easily beside him as they leave the changing room.

“Did you realise any of us did?” Leliana’s tone is as soft as it ever is, but Dorian has to set his teeth to convince himself it’s not a criticism. 

Leliana picks up on it, because she always does. “It’s not a crime to not know everything about your friends’ lives.”

Dorian snorts, “coming from the woman who knows everything from Cassandra’s bra size to Blackwall’s middle name.”

Leliana shrugs. “Someone must.”

Sera, never hard to spot and now, adorned with furry legwarmers and even more glitter than usual, near impossible to miss, catches Dorian’s eye from across the track. Bull has apparently decided to take a break from the impromptu construction (or maybe this is what ‘finished’ looks like -- Dorian has no idea) to scheme with Sera, lifting her easily into the air as Dorian watches.

Sera shakes her head dramatically and Bull puts her down, listening intently to what ever it is she’s saying as she backs away (probably not a good sign) and a moment later Sera is skating fast at Bull, reaching out to catch his hands so he can swing her, loading on far more speed than Dorian feels comfortable watching. 

Her delighted cackle is audible, even as she loses control and ends up skidding onto her knees.

Dorian shakes his head, “who’s she showing off for?”

“Dagna,” Leliana replies, and Dorian follows her gaze to a red-headed dwarf in denim overalls sitting to the side of the rink, a skate in hand and a toolbox almost as big as she is beside her.

“Ah,” Dorian says, smiling as Dagna, thoroughly distracted by Sera’s antics, fumbles and drops something. “This should be interesting. You know, you could probably outsell Varric with the intel you have on us alone.”

Leliana shrugs, but there’s a smile hiding at the corners of her mouth. “Someone has to keep track.”

The last of the players from the changing room go flying past Dorian fast enough that he nearly yelps, leaving the two of them quite alone on at the end of the building.

“If I were to ask for some of that... information,” Dorian says, “how likely would you be to share it?”

“That would depend on the information,” Leliana replies, giving him a calculating look, “and the purpose.”

“Nothing nefarious,” Dorian promises, “and nothing particularly confidential, I just need a few extra... data points.”

Leliana doesn’t say anything, and it starts to become clear just how she managed to acquire her wealth of knowledge as Dorian fights the urge to squirm and admit everything under the weight of her silence.

“Bull,” Dorian says, voice dropping lower than it needs to be, “has he ever had any relationships? Romantic ones I mean.”

“If you’re worried about a jilted ex-lover, maybe you should be asking  _ him _ .”

“I’m  _ not _ ,” Dorian assures her, because he isn’t. Even if the answer to Dorian’s question is yes, even if there are exes out there, Dorian’s never in his life met anyone so likely to be on good terms with them, and he knows  _ a lot _ of lesbians.

Leliana tilts her head slightly, like she’s thinking.

“Not that I know of,” she says, which makes it as good as fact. 

“Thank you,” Dorian says, “that’s helpful.”

Because it is. It might not be the answer he wanted to hear, but it’s helpful none the less. 

There’s a yell, and both Dorian and Leliana look up, though Dorian finds himself more startled than she does. 

It’s not until Dorian gets a little closer that he realises that yelling figure in black-and-white is  _ Josephine _ , her striped shirt tucked into a black skirt, wearing skates of her own.

“Are you... playing?” Dorian asks as Josephine glides to a tidy stop in front of them. 

“I am a referee,” Josephine explains. 

“Referees need to be on skates?”

“Of course! We have to keep track of the jammers, score, and any illegal actions,” Josephine rattles off, as though the words should mean something to Dorian. He’s saved from having to respond by a short whistle from another striped individual.

“I have to go,” she says, leaning in to kiss Dorian on the check, “I’m glad you’re here.”

“You’ll figure it out quickly enough,” Leliana assures him. “She who laps, wins.”

She leaves too, and Dorian becomes suddenly rather aware of the fact he’s standing on what appears to be the track, and promptly removes himself.

Bull is rather easy to locate, thanks to the horns. While not the only set in the crowd, they’re by far the most striking.

Dorian makes his way up onto the bleachers, and into the spot that Bull has saved for him. It’s not as cramped as it could be, but the bleachers appear to have been made with scrawny teenagers in mind, and the lack of individual seats means that Dorian is exceedingly aware of his elbows. He’s been to a few sports games in his time down south, and while they do have some redeeming qualities (the shorter the shorts of the men playing, Dorian has found, the longer his patience) they can be rather boring. 

Sports are something of an acquired taste, best developed early, and given the closest thing to sports Dorian was exposed to growing up were hunting (unfortunately) and watching Magisters politely murder each others’ political careers over canapés, Dorian isn’t confident of his chances.

“Where’s the ball?” Dorian asks, leaning in close enough that Bull can hear him without Dorian having to announce his ignorance to all assembled.

“Isn’t one,” Bull explains, then grins when he sees Dorian frown in confusion. “Bit ball-obsessed, huh?”

Dorian swats him on the arm.

“They score points with their bodies,” Bull continues, “one of them has to try and lap the other team, they’re the jammer. See how Frightengale has a star on her helmet?” he says, pointing to Leliana, “that means she’s the jammer.”

“And the others?”

“Blockers. They try and stop the other team’s jammer getting past them.”

“How do they do that-” Dorian tries to ask, only to have his question drowned out by, and in a sense, answered, by the whistle. It rings out and both jammers take off. Leliana, or rather,  _ Frightengale _ , manages to somehow find a space in the crowd in front of her to sneak through, while the other jammer finds herself caught up by the rest of the Haven Heretics, blocking her movement with their bodies, and extra person ready to get in her way as soon as she slips free of another.

It’s only seconds before Frightengale is back, first lap completed, and this time she does have some difficulty getting through. The opposing jammer, while less nimble than Leliana, does seem to be just as stubborn, and her consistent attempts to break through have spread the others out, leaving  _ Frightengale _ without anyone to help her break through the blockers. One of them --  _ Lace of Spades _ \-- breaks with the rest of the Heretic blockers, circling back to help Leliana. Between the two of them they make a hole big enough for Leliana to squeeze through, though in the meantime the opposing jammer has finally broken free and is racing around the track, quickly gaining on her. It gets messier after that, and Dorian loses track of everything but Frightengale as she and the opposing jammer building speed and near on keep pace with one another as they weave through the blockers and occasionally get caught by them.

The whistle blows again, sharply, and the players break from one another, sliding to stops and doubling over, breathing heavily.

“Is it over?” Dorian asks, looking to Bull.

“Nah, that was just one jam. Two minutes.”

With the second jam comes the first major tumble of the night, one of the Kirkwall Champion blockers gets hip-checked by Herah as she tries to make space for Frightengale to get through and she eats track. Dorian winces and almost stands up off his seat, as though there’s anything he can do. No one else seems that bothered, the player curling herself into a ball, hands tucked safely away as the others swerve easily around her.

“Brace yourself,” Bull says, thought the arm he lays over Dorian’s shoulders does more to help that than Dorian really could, “this is a  _ full _ contact sport.”

The game continues, a couple more jams with Frightengale as the jammer, before she hands over the star (which turns out to be printed onto a sort of helmet sock) over to Sera. She’s good, not as polished as Leliana maybe, but with fewer inhibitions, and even padded her elbows seem to make people wary. 

Then it’s back to Frightengale, then Sera again. This time Red Jenny makes it all of two jams before being sent to time out by Josephine, for something Dorian missed entirely but drew a collective hiss from the audience members who were watching. She gives a theatrical bow as she leaves the track.

Red Jenny getting sent out for rule violations is a common and predictable occurrence if the rest of the Heretics are to be judged by. There’s no hint of panic, but they switch instead to defense, doing their damnedest to at least hold on to the lead they’ve gained, if not increase it. 

By the time Sera gets released, they’ve kept five of the ten points of lead. A second after Sera’s skates hit the track the whistle goes again, ending the jam, and Sera curses, loudly enough that Dorian can hear her, even if he can’t discern her words over the clatter of skates.

“Intermission?” Dorian asks, when the skaters leave the track, chasing after water bottles, and the other spectators start shifting in their seats.

“Halftime,” Bull informs him, standing up “something to eat?”

Dorian nods. “Surprise me?” he asks, craning his neck to see their friends and chacking his pocket to make sure he’s still got eyeliner with him.

Bull lays a heavy hand on Dorian’s shoulder for a moment, just long enough that Dorian feels the need to look up and take in the grin on Bull’s face before he shuffles to the end of the bench then down and out of sight. 

Dorian follows, with a little more ease than Bull, hesitating when he hits the ground, unsure of the rules, but no one makes to stop him as he way toward the Heretics. His distance assessment of the makeup situation turns out to be fairly accurate. Some of it has stayed put (the glitter especially), while others have near on melted-off in the heat and exertion of the game.

Dorian grabs Sera by the back of her shirt and pulls her over to a bench for touch-up.

“Isn’t that a conflict of interest?” Dorian asks, as he tries to keep Sera still for long enough to touch up her eyeliner without blinding her.

Sera looks over (unhelpful) to where Josephine is fussing over Herah and her slightly bruised knee. She snorts, “you have met her, yeah?”

“And referees are not abundant in supply,” Leliana adds, stretching.

Herah manages to break away from said girlfriend and Dorian finds himself in the middle of what is apparently a team huddle, while his friends and their teammates have a hushed and rapid fire discussion over him, understanding one word in three if he’s lucky. There’s a rather terrifying minute of rhythmic skate stamping and chant chanting that he’s not all too pleased to be in the middle of, but it does bring Herah and Leliana within grabbing distance which is something.

He makes it through Sera and Leliana’s touchup work, and halfway through Herah’s before another whistle blows and they scatter, leaving Dorian sitting alone with a fist full of makeup. He panics, for a moment, when a scan of the area that he and Bull had been sitting in comes up empty, but his eye is caught by a ball of neon fluff waving in the corner of his vision, which turns out to be Bull in an entirely different (and much easier to access) seat.

“This can’t be good for you,” Dorian says when Bull hands him the candyfloss, “the colouring alone.”

“I don’t think it’s supposed to be.”

Bull’s idea of surprise snacks ends up being candyfloss on a stick, and also a hotdog on a stick. 

“I’m sensing a theme here.”

“Practicality?”

The second half of the game is much like the first, in a lot of ways. Dorian is starting to understand enough of the game (thanks to Bull’s generous instruction) that he can at least follow what’s going on. The skaters seem to be getting tired, losing their balance more and collasping onto their seats when they leave the track.

They don’t stop though, not close. And the nearer they get to the end of the game the more stops they pull out to get gain a lead in the points. By the time Frightengale lands a terrifying leap over the corner of the track, Dorian’s yelling just as loud as everyone else. Her skates hit the ground, in front of the other team’s blockers second before the final whistle blows.

“Fuck yeah!” 

Bull’s yell is loud enough to be heard clearly, even over the din of spectators leaving the bleachers and skates squeaking as skaters slap each other on the back and try to hear each other over the noise. The crowd surges down to the track, carrying Bull and Dorian with it, as people line up for high-fives and skaters roll past before dispersing into the crowd.

Bull’s not glued to Dorian’s side any more, but he hasn’t ventured far -- grabbing Herah by the horns and pressing his forehead against her helmet as he yells in what is apparently a totally normal and acceptable qunari gesture, if Herah’s body language is anything to go by. 

Dorian can’t blame him. He’d come in here expecting to be a least somewhat entertained, and probably impressed, but his heart is thrumming in a way he didn’t anticipate. He starts as Leliana skids to a halt beside him, grinning in a way Dorian doesn’t get to see nearly often enough.

“How do you do that?” he asks, looking from her small frame to the impossibly small gap between Josephine and Bull that she’d arrived through. He may have spent near to an hour watching her do it but he still has no idea how she’s managing it.

Leliana answers his question with only a wink. “Look,” she says, pointing across the rink. Dorian shuffles until he can see through the crowd to what she’s pointing at, which turns out to be Sera and her crush.

“Is she... is she  _ mooning  _ the poor girl?” Dorian asks, wishing he were more surprised.

“She’s showing off her bruise,” another skater corrects, appearing at Dorian’s other shoulder, “but good guess.”

Dorian turns to Siren. She’s on the opposing team, and had done well enough to be noticed, despite Dorian barely being able to keep track of the Heretics. It hadn’t been a  _ violent  _ game, but was certainly more on the aggressive side, and he’d half expected a post game standoff. Instead, the competitive spirit had evaporated with the final whistle, skaters mingling and clapping each other on the back.

“Iz!” Bull says - shouts really, turning and spotting Dorian’s new friend, like he’s known her forever, and yes, alright, now that he’s close enough and low enough to see more than the top of her helmet she does look familiar.

“Isabela,” she says, awkwardly reaching a hand out to Dorian from the bear hug Bull’s enveloped her.

“Dorian.”

“So I hear,” she says, as Bull releases her and they both turn to Dorian. Isabela elbows Bull in the side. “He’s even cuter up close.”

Dorian has known Bull for, well, years now, and has lived with him for something approaching months. He’s seen the man drunk under the table, he’s seen him so exhausted he can’t see straight, seen him cry, even seen him ( _ not _ on purpose, thank you) on the toilet, but Dorian’s  _ never _ seen the Iron Bull blush until this moment.

Torn between preening at the praise and prodding Bull to find out  _ exactly _ what that means, Dorian is saved from having to do either by the arrival of another skater (which Dorian really shouldn’t be surprised by at this stage), an elf with delicate vallaslin that’s been emphasised by vivid green lines, who crashes into Isabela’s side with a force that makes Dorian very glad she’s already removed her skates.

Isabela tries to stabilise a now blushing Bloody Merrill, but Dorian’s eye is caught by the stumble in Bull’s step, shifting closer and tucking himself instinctively under Bull’s arm. If Bull’s not going to say anything about his knee, Dorian won’t out him, but that’s not going to stop him from offering support, even if it is under the guise of a show of affection (not that Dorian has any objection to that either).

Bull looks surprised at first. It’s not that Dorian and Bull haven’t had physical contact over the last week -- Dorian’s not sure that’s even possible -- and while Bull certainly hasn’t pushed anything, and has been more aware than usual of Dorian’s responses, he’s been the one initiating most of it. The surprise only lasts a moment though, and then he’s letting just a little of his weight rest over Dorian’s shoulders.

“Something in the water tonight,” he says, pitching his voice low, eye jumping from Sera (who  _ has _ pulled her shorts back up, thank the Maker, and is now practically sitting in Dagna’s lap) to Isabela.

“Maybe you should wear this all the time, kitten,” she says, tugging at Merrill’s helmet to straighten it. Merrill’s blush has only grown brighter.

“Didn’t know you two were a thing,” Bull says, and both women turn to him.

“What sort of thing?” Merrill asks, frowning as Isabela puts a finger to her lips and winks.

* * *

“This is why you shouldn’t be throwing elves around,” Dorian says, maneuvering himself so that Bull doesn’t have much option but to lean on Dorian as he gets out of the car, “or anyone really, but Sera’s the only one daft enough to let you.”

“Worth it,” Bull says, wincing a little. The cold Ferelden winter isn’t helping much, “better than just being sore from being at work all day.”

There’s a sense to that, Dorian supposes, and makes a mental note to keep a closer eye on how Bull moves when he gets home in the evenings. The man’s not a fool. Not prone to the same self-conscious martyrdom of Cullen “Walked Around On A Broken Foot For Two Days Because I Didn’t Want To Cause A Fuss” Rutherford. Bull knows his limits and just how far he can push them - and what pushing will cost — but that doesn’t mean he likes them. 

So no, Dorian won’t begrudge Bull his unwise decision and it’s consequences (one is not advised to throw stones in a wine cellar, after all) but he  _ will _ be the one to tell Bull that he’s had quite enough already. 

Bull lets himself lean more heavily on Dorian’s shoulder than he had at the game, though it’s unclear if that is due to the lack of observers or him finally giving in. Either way it’s a nice sensation, feeling Bull lean on him. Like he trusts Dorian, like Dorian being around  _ helps _ .

“Did the house come before or after the knee?” Dorian asks, as he pushes open the front door and catches sight of the stairs. Both predate Dorian’s entry into Bull’s life.

“After,” Bull admits, “it’s fine most of the time, and a good buy.”

“Hmph.”

Bull probably could make it up the stairs. He certainly looks like he’s working himself up to do so, but if there’s one lesson Dorian has learned from, well, his entire life, it’s that just because one can, doesn’t mean one should.

“Sleep in my room,” Dorian says, letting the words tumble out of his mouth before he has a chance to think better of it.

Bull freezes, and looks at Dorian sideways, like he’s evaluating him.

“Oh honestly,” Dorian says, pushing the door shut behind them, “it’s not like we haven’t shared before. I promise to be a gentleman about it.”

“I’ll hold you to it.”

He’s not sure whether it’s the past week they’ve had, or watching Bull move slowly and stiffly down through the lounge, or the understanding of Bull that’s been evolving in his head, but Dorian finds himself heading to bed with Bull  _ without _ being in his head about it. He’s not second guessing himself, or analysing Bull, or even counting his exits.

There will be no fun, no games, just sleep and company and Dorian is looking forward to it all the same. Dorian hums quietly as he sits Bull down on his bed, though who he’s soothing isn’t clear, even to himself.

“I’ll get your things,” Dorian says, cutting Bull off when he tries to stand, “behave yourself.”

“Yes, ser.”

Dorian takes his time upstairs, grabbing Bull a change of clothes, an extra pillow, his pain meds from the bedside, though not so long that Bull will come looking. He needs the moment. To think. Bull’s waiting on an answer, and he may be a patient man, but Dorian isn’t. The night is good and sleep is calling, and the last thing he wants is to lay awake until the small hours turning over a decision he can’t even share.

It feels like a test. It wouldn’t have been meant that way -- it’s not Bull’s style, he may not even be aware, but Dorian feels the weight of it all the same. He may not have come particularly close to a real decision this week, but he has at least figured out that this test is less about making the right decision for Bull as it is making the right decision for himself.

* * *

“I thought about it,” Dorian says, passing Bull a clean shirt and setting painkillers and a glass of water beside the bed. It’s true, he has thought about it, though to say he’s made a decision would be quite the lie.

“Yeah?”

“I’d like things to be how they have been,” Dorian says, sitting down to take off his shoes, if only for something to do. It’s a truth, if not all of it. It’s at least a truth Dorian’s willing to vocalise.

He tries not to watch Bull, not to analyse his facial expression in the dim light, or listen for a hitch in breathing. For all that Dorian’s observant, Bull is even more careful, and Dorian’s track record of reading the right things from Bull is patchy at best.

“Works for me.”

“I have a condition though.”

“Yeah? Shoot.”

Dorian does look at Bull this time. He knew Bull would be okay with his answer, he’d all but promised it ahead of time, but that doesn’t mean he’ll feel that way forever. Maybe given time Dorian’s feelings will fade and he’ll be able to meet Bull where he’s at physically without messing up their relationship, in whatever form it is. Maybe given time Dorian just won’t care where Bull gets his kicks.

“You tell me when that stops working for you.”

“ _ If. _ ”

“Either.”

“Works for me,” Bull says, shrugging.

“I mean it,” Dorian insists, fixing him with a stare.

For a moment Bull just stares right back at him, then smiles. “Pinky promise,” he says, holding out the hand  _ without _ the little finger.

“What is it with you and delighting in the missing appendage humour?” Dorian asks, wrapping his little finger around the remaining joint regardless.

“Dunno that an eye counts as an appendage,” Bull points out.

“Pedantry isn’t cute.”

“Neither’s hypocrisy,” Bull says, leaning back on Dorian’s pillows and holding out his arms as if showing off his bare torse to the world, “and yet here we both are, defying physics.”

“Is that a pop culture reference?”

“ _ I think I’ll tryyyyyyy-” _

“Nope, no you don’t,” Dorian cuts in, leaning over to slap a hand over Bull’s mouth. While he’s far from the worst singer Dorian has ever heard, he has significantly more enthusiasm than skill, and Dorian’s not even certain Bull’s physically capable of hitting that note, and it is not a risk he’s willing to take.

The sound cuts off and Dorian carefully pulls his hand away from Bull’s now grinning mouth.

“Oh so you do know that one,” Bull says, “were you a ‘theatre kid’? Do they have theatre kids in Tevinter?”

“I’ll have you know that we  _ invented _ theatre, thank you very much.”

“I’d believe it.”

Dorian stands with an appropriately dramatic huff and gets the rest of the way changed. So long as he doesn’t think about it too hard, getting undressed in front of Bull feels shockingly normal. Comfortable. Easy. 

How being around Bull  _ used _ to be, back before Dorian went and complicated things. Well, Dorian and the Ferelden government. They’re equally responsible for this mess as far as he’s concerned. 

It’s the feeling Dorian had been dreaming of, when he first left Tevinter. Relationships not laced with panic, quiet spaces of life in between. And alright, yes, he’d also imagined that would come with some rather spectacular sex to bracket those in-between places, for romance that would make his heart race in a more welcome way.

Most everything has turned out differently from how Dorian had imagined. Most of them for the better. There’s no reason for this to be the exception.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter may or may not have been inspired by the author's recent involvement in roller derby. All mistakes in the depiction of roller derby are of course, intentional and designed to highlight Dorian's lack of familiarity with the sport, and not at all to do with the fact that the author is only halfway through fresh meat.
> 
> I'm going to try real hard to pick the writing pace up over the next few weeks, so I'm not leaving you all hanging for as long between chapters as we start really getting into it, but if that doesn't end up being possible, I may have to take a hiatus to finish things up so I can offer those regular updates. Won't be until after the next update if that does happen though, and you can always follow me on tumblr for more frequent updates and nonsense ([queerspacepunk.tumblr.com](queerspacepunk.tumblr.com))


	11. A Satinalia Episode

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somewhat early on in writing this fic, I considered throwing a Satinalia-themed chapter (or episode as I apprently insist on calling it), a chapter in which (as you'll soon see) became more of a Satinalia arc, and I'm not mad about it.
> 
> I'll be upfront here, while I've tried to make this more Thedas-specific, I'm essentially writing Satinalia as Dragon Age Christmas, because Christmas can be fun, and Christmas tropes are definitely fun and because it's winter here and ~~not at all because I'm using fanfiction to process my complicated newly-jewish feelings about christmas or anything~~
> 
> Enjoy!

Dorian is no stranger to getting over men who don’t reciprocate his feelings. The best solution, of course, is to not develop feelings for them in the first place. But Dorian is a mage, not a miracle worker, so he does his best and a good eighty percent of the time, he’s successful.

There are two main techniques Dorian uses for the remaining twenty percent of cases: distraction and avoidance. The distraction option having in this particular situation proven him a fool before it even really started (and not a mistake he’s keen on repeating just yet), he is left reliant on avoidance.

It’s a slower process, certainly. Apt to take weeks, or even months, but what avoidance lacks in speed it makes up for in efficacy (and carries a far lower rate of relapse). For all it is effective, this technique does require distance to be successful, something that Dorian does not currently have in abundance.

(Maevaris posited once that Dorian might have a slightly higher romantic success rate if he tried experiencing his emotions rather than studying them. Dorian said he’d consider testing her hypothesis at some point.)

Dorian’s actual approach, in the end, is born not out of intention or planning, but out of having no real other option: exposure therapy. If Dorian cannot distract himself from Bull, and he cannot avoid Bull, then his only real option is to allow his life to continue to be saturated in Bull’s presence until the shine wears off. If he’s lucky, Bull’s idiosyncrasies might even start to drive him mad.

So, as Autumn draws through toward Winter, Dorian leans into it. Literally, at times. Standing close enough and often enough that Bull stops stopping himself from indulging in the physical contact so inherent to all his interactions. Until the shiver in Dorian’s chest at Bulls touch fades down to a hum. and sharing space becomes second-nature. Which is fortunate, given the way the weather _insists_ on getting colder and colder.

Bull is a furnace, and even sitting next to him on the sofa is enough to help keep Dorian just that little bit warmer.

* * *

There is one redeeming feature of Ferelden winters, and that is a Ferelden Satinalia. It is celebrated in Tevinter, of course, though “celebrated” is a something of an over-enthusiastic descriptor. Perhaps it’s the lack of true cold driving the need for warmth and light and festivity. Maybe it’s Tevinter high culture’s distaste for anything that could be conceived of as ‘tacky’. At this point, even the historical brandy-and-blood-magic benders have fallen by the wayside.

There were parties back home, in the lead-up, of course. Any chance to drink and politic was going to be a winner. Then the days around Satinalia itself. Chantry services, the extended House of Pavus all convening at the estate, spending time with people who remind Dorian of exactly how much he likes alcohol.

Ferelden, though, goes all in. The holiday itself is celebrated with family, friends, food. Gifts, decorations. The whole country begins draping itself in sparkling lights and shiny baubles almost as soon as the sun has gone down on All Souls Day. 

It’s tacky, and gaudy, and commercialised, and Dorian absolutely loves it.

Maybe it’s the chance to rug himself up in every warm knitted thing he can get his hands on and be seasonally appropriate for once. Maybe it’s the relief that the lights bring from the dark and dreary winter. Perhaps it’s simply the fact that the whole thing would have his mother in fits.

A large proportion of his friends are immigrants, family too far away to visit (at least not every year) so they all come together. At Bull’s house, or Josephine’s, or one day, maybe, Vivienne’s. There’s nights spent celebrating at Varric’s bar so he and Cole can join the festivities without missing out on holiday income.

Now, because Dorian _isn’t_ a monster, he doesn’t begin his holiday decorating the minute All Souls Day is over, when every business in the country starts putting out their holidays ads. He waits instead until the first weekend of Harvestmere before pulling out the string lights. 

Bull’s house, from memory, is rarely decorated for the holiday, despite hosting a number of Satinalia gatherings there in the years that Dorian’s known him, and so he’s not quite sure what to expect when he asks Bull how he feels about it all. Dorian had considered the route of simply putting the decorations up and asking forgiveness later, but it seemed... inconsiderate. If Bull really _does_ have an issue with them, it would have to be one serious enough that it should concern Dorian, frankly.

However, Bull is rather delighted by the concept. Dorian’s light collection turns out to be a little undersized for the house he currently lives in, and they end up returning from the subsequent shopping trip with twice as many lights again, a wreath for the front door, half a dozen scented candles, a rainbow’s worth of glittering baubles, thirty feet of garland and an obnoxious, glowing inflatable for the front garden (a silent one. Dorian had put his foot down _firmly_ on the singing ones).

What Dorian had initially anticipated taking an evening at most, ends up taking most of a weekend to complete. There’s a trip to the hardware store for an exterior power cable for the inflatable,pink lyre-wielding halla Bull had picked out (it was that or the six foot singing nug), and a heavy duty surge protector for the interior lights (lest they have another wedding situation on their hands). 

* * *

The lead up to Satinalia is possibly the only time in which Ferelden’s winter is something approaching redeemable. 

It’s late afternoon, the sun just dipping down, but the street is still bustling with people taking advantage of evening hours to get their shopping done. Between the lights and the crowd and the knitwear Dorian is layered in, the chill is tolerable (and alright, walking at Bull’s side helps too, if even only as a windbreak). 

There’s still a week and change before Satinalia, and a weekend with it, but as much as Dorian is admiring the ambiance of the evening, he’s learned the hard way that the pleasance of Satinalia shopping is something of a dramatic curve, rising steadily before dropping violently in those last few days as the panic of the approaching deadline overwhelms the public’s ability to act like people.

Dorian’s almost done with his shopping -- he’s already collected a little set of wax paper envelopes and pocket safe snips for Herah (he is, essentially, enabling her in stealing a little something from every garden she passes, but if that’s not what friends are for, what good are they?) and he’d received a call earlier that morning from the lovely Antivan antiques dealer to say they fountain pen he’d ordered for Josephine had arrived. 

Bull’s gift Dorian will have to pick up after work during the week, and admittedly he has no idea what to get for Sera, but all in all Dorian is feeling quite pleased with himself.

So it’s with eyes wandering to (hopefully) find something the fill out the rest of his list, Dorian spots the photo operation. It’s a holiday pop-up store of some sort, filling the space in what is usually an empty store front. There’s no official signage on the exterior of the building, but a number of windows are covered with posters showing examples of the company’s work. 

They feature Intentionally (and a little condescendingly) diverse groups of people, all with faux smiles as they hold each other close and stare at the camera, surrounded by holiday decor, the photos blurred at the edges and overlaid with sparkles and snow effects and curly handwriting of holiday greetings. 

The concept is unnecessarily capitalistic, the execution is tacky at best and the entire thing is enough that Dorian’s mother would need to have lie down just from looking at it. 

“Bull,” Dorian says, stopping sharply in front if the door, “detour.”

* * *

The place is even more clearly a pop-up shop from the inside. There are a few mismatched chairs sitting by one wall, stands of posters and flyers, a table with example products (Dorian’s not quite sure who would need or want personalised holiday-photo flip flops, but that’s a someone else problem, not a Dorian problem) all ill-fitted to the large and empty space.

Most of the store has been sectioned off into photoshoot cubicles, and he can hear the cameras clicking and muffled voices from at least a few of them.

“How can I help?” asks a young and understandably bored sounding elf from behind the counter.

“We would like some photos taken,” Dorian says. It seems rather obvious, but if walking in here didn’t make that clear enough, well, there’s nothing wrong with being explicit.

“We do?” Bull asks.

“Yes,” says Dorian. Explicitly. 

“Cool,” the young elf lady says, glancing over her shoulder, “Marco and Francis are free, head on back.”

Dorian isn’t sure _which_ of the two bored photographers hovering at the back of the shop is Marco, and which is Francis, but after a quick scan of the choices, determines that the one who has accessorised his corporate blue tshirt with smudged eyeliner, a single earring made out of a poisonous looking plastic frog and a teal undercut-mullet situation (which reminds him strangely of Sera) is their best bet. 

“My husband and I,” Dorian says, taking Bull’s hand and dragging him along, “are after some holiday photos.”

* * *

The set, fortunately, comes with its own collection of holiday themed accessories and props. Dorian finds a truly atrocious colourwork sweater covered in brightly coloured moons and sparkles and snowflakes and what he _thinks_ are supposed to be a string of lights. It’s not normally something he’d be willing to put on his body, but Marco assures him that no one else has been game to try it and Dorian is the first wearer.

Unsurprisingly, there isn’t anything that will fit Bull, but they do manage to find a scarf that matches well enough, especially once Dorian offsets it with a shiny bauble dangling jauntily from one horn.

“So, what kinda photos are we going for?” Marco asks, once Dorian and Bull are settled on the couch.

“The kind that might finally convince my parents that I don’t plan on settling down with a nice girl from a good family.”

Bull snorts beside him, but Marco’s eyes go wide for a moment, like he’s not sure how to take that, and then the side of his mouth turns up a little.

“Hang on,” he says, putting his camera carefully down on a table, and walking to the back of the couch. He fusses for a few minutes, though doing what, Dorian’s not quite sure. Between Marco’s back and trying not to put his own eye out on Bull’s beautifully decorated horn it’s not until Marco moves back around to pick up his camera that Dorian can see.

The ornaments that had been hanging from the garland on the wall behind them has been carefully rearranged into a festive rainbow.

“Ah,” Dorian says, turning back to the camera, “that’s the spirit.”

“You don’t mind, do you?” Dorian asks Bull quietly as Marco, now clearly on firmer footing, directs them.

“Mind what? Terrorising your parents?”

“Well yes,” Dorian admits, obligingly throwing one of his legs across Bull’s lap, “and this.”

“You know,” Bull says, pulling Dorian the rest of the way onto his lap, “I think I can cope.”

Just to be clear, the blush that is visible on Dorian’s cheeks in the photo Marco takes a moment later is due _entirely_ to the bright studio lights and the overly warm holiday sweater.

* * *

Dorian pays the extra to have the dozen photo cards printed and ready to collect the next day. It’s going to cost a fortune to get them couriered to Tevinter in time for Satinalia, but by Dorian’s count, it’s been over a decade since he’s bought either of his parents anything resembling a gift, he can afford it. 

The photo operation is starting to pack up for the night by the time they’re done taking the photos, so there’s no chance for Dorian to preview the final product, cliches overlays and script included, but Marco, who has proven him self to be a young man with vision, promises Dorian he’ll take care of it personally.

“All this just to piss off your parents?” Bull asks, eyes drawn to the postage calculator on Dorian’s phone as he hisses at the cost.

“Indeed,” Dorian says, reaching up to pat Bull’s cheek, “don’t say I never do anything for you.”

[ _Happy Satinalia from the Bull-Pavus family_ ](https://halwardpavushatersclub.tumblr.com/post/632650930015305728/dorian-looking-through-tacky-holiday-sweaters-at-a)

* * *

As promised, Dorian receives a text notification the next afternoon informing him that the cards are ready to collect. While Dorian’s detour the previous night had thrown his shopping schedule out entirely, on his second trip he finally makes it in to collect Josephine’s present, gets distracted by a shop window display of a new book from one of Varric’s more contentious rivals (he buys two copies; one he’ll give to Varric with a set of bright red pens, and the other he’ll strip the dust jacket off of to give to Cassandra so she can read Varric’s latest in public without admitting it), and somehow, impossibly, comes across a pair of yellow booty shorts with ‘ **BEES?** ’ on the butt that he is contractually obliged to buy for Sera.

Assured by an acquaintance in the University’s mail department (thanks so some sweet talking and a bribe or two) that if he can get the cards in first thing the next morning, they’ll make it to Tevinter in time for the holiday, Dorian decides to make a quick pit stop. A few texts to determine where Bertha is at the moment (parked in Herah and Josephine’s garden with secure access to power, heating and a bathroom, thank goodness), assurances from Sera that he’s allowed to let himself into her caravan despite her absence and ten rather terrifying minutes trying to locate one small sparkly thing in amongst Sera’s _thousands_ of sparkly things without encountering a sex toy later, Dorian makes it home with an ounce of glitter in a little plastic bag and delight in his heart.

* * *

Dorian’s sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table, halfway through tipping a dose of glitter into the envelope addressed to his father’s office when Josephine calls.

“My dear, I must have just missed you,” he says, putting the phone on speaker and propping it next to his wine glass.

“You were here?”

“I had to raid Bertha,” Dorian explains. “The lights weren’t on or I would have come in.” He squints at the gum on the envelope flap and the few bits of glitter already stuck to it. “Is glitter toxic?”

“Perhaps you should ask Sera that.”

“Sera once ate silly string.”

“Touché.”

Dorian sighs, then, admitting to himself that he’s almost certainly consumed more than a little glitter in his life already with no ill effect to speak of, that a few more flakes in service to such a good deed is a risk worth taking.

“Anyway, how can I help you?”

“Ah yes, do you have a waffle-maker?”

“Is that an idiom?” Dorian asks, adding the now sealed envelope to the small stack on the floor beside him.

“It is a question. I can understand that Southern Satinalias are... briefer than I am used to, but we are only going to have the one day of celebrations I’ll need to start with breakfast.”

“I would never argue with an Antivan holiday breakfast,” he assures her, “don’t you already have a waffle maker?”

“I do,” Josephine says, “I need to know if _you_ have one or if I should bring mine.”

“Bring yours where?”

“To your house.”

“When?”

“Santinalia.”

Dorian frowns and picks up his phone, switching it off speaker and holding it up to his ear, as though that might help clarify things, “I seem to have missed something,” Dorian says, “why are you coming to my house on Satinalia?”

“We are all coming,” Josephine says, starting to sound a little uncertain herself, “did you not know?”

“I assumed we were coming to your house, like usual.”

“We were, but The Iron Bull offered to host -- I had assumed it was your idea?”

It wasn’t, though it’s a good enough idea that Dorian would have been willing to take credit for it, had he known.

“Is it a problem?” Josephine asks, “we’re happy to host if it is.”

“No, no,” Dorian says, “here is perfect.”

“Wonderful. And the waffle-maker?”

“I don’t have one, Bull might. I’ll check and get back to you?”

* * *

“Since when are we hosting Satinalia?” Dorian asks when Bull comes down into the kitchen. Dorian has shifted his operation in here to the better light, and is holding each card up to check for any stray glitter on the outside of the envelopes that might give the game away.

“Oh, yeah,” Bull says, like Dorian’s caught him off guard. “Couple weeks ago?”

Dorian puts his envelope down and stares at him. “Any reason?”

“I just, uh, since we decorated and everything. Thought it’d be nice.”

“And that’s all?”

“Yeah. Why else?”

It’s not the most original or astute of arguments, but in fairness Dorian _can’t_ think of another reason, nor can he honestly think of a reason _not_ to host Satinalia. Herah and Josephine’s place is bigger, but they’ve managed to fit everyone into the building easily enough before. It’ll require some creativity to get everyone around the same table, but it’s possible.

“Was there any reason you didn’t think to _tell_ me that we’re hosting Satinalia?”

“Dunno,” Bull says, shrugging. “Forgot?”

* * *

Friday night comes and, despite it only being two days until Satinalia proper, Dorian finds himself shockingly unstressed. He has the weekend off of course, and the holiday itself. The University had made the magnanimous decision to close for the rest of the week, so Dorian’s looking at a solid nine days of holiday.

He’s even finished with his shopping, and is back at the coffee table, taking advantage of Bull’s outing to fetch dinner to get his present wrapped. He’s decided to go for a double layer, wrapping it first in pink tissue before covering the lot up with black and white paper and gold ribbon to match the others. 

Dorian’s just tying the bow when his laptop dings on the couch. He places Bull’s gift into his basket and pulls the laptop over.

**Josephine M. has replied to your comments on the document: Satinalia Planning**

Opening up the spreadsheet, Dorian scrolls through for the comment.

**> Dorian P. today at 16:21:** _“I don’t know if we’re going to have enough freezer space. Perhaps a chilly bin left outside. Let the weather be useful at once.”_

**> > Josephine M. today at 18:39: ** **** _“A good idea. Herah can refreeze the ice if we need her to.”_

Dorian tries very hard not to let that sting, and clicks _resolve_. There’s a second ding and Dorian scrolls through the tabs until he finds Josephine’s small gold icon moving through “tableware”

**> Josephine M. today at 18:41:** “Is Varric still bringing extra glasses?”

**> > Dorian P. today at 18:42:** “he has a function the night before, isn’t sure if he’ll get them back in time. I can pick some more up over the weekend.”

He scans the rest of the spreadsheet, resolving a few more comments and firing off texts to some of the others to make sure they’re all on track. With the precision with which Josephine is orchestrating a simple Satinalia among friends, Dorian’s starting to see how she and Leliana managed to pull off his wedding.

Presents wrapped and holiday provisions accounted for, Dorian’s considering turning on the TV for a while when the lights from Bull’s car flicker through the glass in the front door.

“Finally,” Dorian says, as the door opens, “I know restaurants are busy this time of the year but I was about to send out a search party.”

There’s no response, and Dorian frowns, putting his laptop aside and walking to the hallway, “do you need a hand with-”

Bull, it turns out, does need a hand. He has pizza, yes, but he also has, well, Felix. 

For a singular second, Dorian stands absolutely still in the lounge doorway, mind struggling with the dissonance of _Felix_ and _here_ , until he’s overcome with joy, and a relief he didn’t even realise he was waiting on, and then he’s throwing himself through the three feet left between them and wrapping his arms around his best friend for the first time in eight-and-a-half blighted years.

He breaks the hug, after a long moment, just to lean back far enough to see Felix’s face, to see that it’s really him and he’s really here, before pulling him back in. Felix is chuckling, softly enough that Dorian feels before he hears it, and has his own arms wrapped around Dorian’s back. Tight.

“What’re you- how?” Dorian asks, or attempts to once he’s gotten his fill enough of Felix’s presence to breathe again.

“Well you see Dorian, there are these things called aeroplanes. These big metal things that fly up in the sky -- they don’t even need magic!”

Dorian fixes him a look while Bulls nudges them both out of the way a little so he can shut the door, and snorts at Felix’s response. Dorian smacks him lightly on the shoulder.

“What?” Bull says, “it’s funny.”

“You know full well I wasn’t enquiring about your method of travel,” Dorian says as Bull walks past them to deposit the pizza in the kitchen, and then back out again for what Dorian assumes are the rest of Felix’s bags, “Why now?”

They’ve seen each other exactly once since Dorian left Tevinter. Early on, when Dorian was in Orlais, before Felix got really sick. He visited for the one weekend. Since then Dorian’s never gone back to Tevinter, and Felix has either been too ill, or it’s been too far, or Dorian’s been too broke. Felix has offered to pay his own fares for years, but Dorian had always insisted on contributing. Felix isn’t in any real financial danger, but being sick is expensive. 

It’s only been in the last couple of years they’d been able to really think about it, and then all of Dorian’s money was going towards rent or visa applications and it just... never happened.

“Bull,” Felix says softly, nodding in his direction. “And before you ask I have been sworn to secrecy about the arrangement, although I was authorised to assure you that no one has been bankrupted in the process.”

Dorian’s not quite sure if he’s more annoyed at the conspiracy itself, or that they’d assumed (accurately) that he would make a fuss.

“Hey,” Felix says, cutting into Dorian’s internal monologue, “I understand, but it’s _alright_. Enjoy this.”

He’s right of course, so Dorian sighs and tries to let go. That’s not to say that he won’t be dragging the details out of Bull inch by painful inch at some point in the future, but for right now, _Felix_ is here in his _house_ and he’s travelled halfway across the continent to get here.

Speaking of.

“ _Kaffas_ ,” Dorian says, finally noticing that the two of them are still standing in the middle of the hallway, “you must be exhausted. Here, come sit.”

Grabbing the handle of Felix’s closest suitcase, Dorian leads Felix through to the lounge.

“Have a seat, I’ll take your things to your- Oh. Hmm.”

Felix obligingly (and with some well-covered relief) lowers himself to the sofa. 

“I’ll take your room,” he says, all false-innocence and scheming, “you don’t mind sharing with Bull do you?”

“All good with me,” Bull calls, startling Dorian as his comes back in with two more of Felix’s bags.

Dorian wants to glare at Felix for this, he really does. There is _nothing_ innocent or accidental about this whatsoever, but the truth of the matter is that Dorian doesn’t mind. Not really.

He’s not over Bull, despite best efforts, but it’s not as though sharing a bed is new territory, and whatever potential awkwardness results is easily outweighed by the fact that _Felix_ is _here_.

“ _Since_ ,” Dorian says, “you are my best friend in the whole world, I suppose so. You’ll just have to, er, give me a minute.”

* * *

Even without any chance to prepare, Dorian’s current bedroom is certainly tidier than the last one of his that Felix had stepped into (his apartment in Minrathous had been stewed in a potent mixture of dramatic self-sabotage, borderline alcoholism, and the deep desire to be as disrespectful as possible to the parents who owned the place). Given notice, Dorian probably could have spent all week perfectly preparing, as it is, Dorian decides to focus on clean sheets, providing a few empty drawers, and hiding his sex toys. 

(There isn’t really anywhere else in the house to stash them, so he settles on wrapping the box in a bag inside another box in the back of his wardrobe, topped with a sign that says “you only have yourself to blame” in Tevene.)

A piece of paper with the wifi password, and his old power adapter on the bedside table as a finishing touch, and Dorian returns to Felix feeling like, if not a wonderful host, then an adequate one at least.

Typically, Dorian and Bull eat in the kitchen, at the table, but when he emerges from the bedroom, Dorian finds Bull and Felix opening the pizza boxes on the coffee table, with Dorian’s wrapping endeavours neatly tucked away underneath.

They’ve cooled a little, but not enough to make them inedible, and Felix seems to be thoroughly enjoying his first taste of Southern pizza. He and Bull seem surprisingly comfortable around one another for two people who’ve just met, though Dorian supposes they must have been in communication for a while to have pulled this off. 

There’s silence mostly, mouths busy with food, then stories of the trip, or how things are back home, then safer conversational topics - Dorian’s workplace, TV shows they’re watching. Silly, simple, unimportant stuff that is nonetheless intimate, simply for the proximity.

Given the chance, Dorian would have happily talked all night, but by the time the last slices of pizza are being boxed for the morning, Felix is visibly starting to fade. Trying to hide his yawn behind his hand, or hold it until Dorian isn’t looking. By the fourth one in as many minutes, Dorian makes the call.

“Time for bed,” Dorian says, hauling himself off of the sofa and extending a hand to Felix.

“I’m fine-” Felix protests. Or rather attempts to. He must be tired if hasn’t anticipated that Dorian is having exactly none of his nonsense.

“I insist,” Dorian insists.

Felix has many virtues, one of which, thankfully, is the grace with which he accepts defeat. Dorian takes him through to the bedroom, in part to make sure he actually goes, and in part to fetch his own night things. 

“You don’t _have_ to share with Bull,” Felix says after the door shuts behind them. “I wasn’t being entirely serious earlier. I’m happy to share if you’d prefer.”

“With Bull?”

“With _you_.”

“I love you dearly, Felix,” Dorian says, “and I am delighted that you’re here, but you kick.”

“Only when threatened.”

“By what, my superior sense of style?” Dorian asks, holding up the green plaid pyjamas that Felix has pulled out of his suitcase.

“I refuse to be threatened by a man who owns a festive sweater.”

He has a point.

“Touché,” Dorian admits, “tea?”

* * *

The tea-making process itself doesn’t take that long, but remembering what sort of tea Felix favours (and no he’s not going to admit to his best friend that he’s forgotten that) and then actually locate some of it does. 

By the time Dorian has two steaming cups in hand, Felix has already visited the bathroom, changed for bed, and climbed under the covers.

“Here,” Dorian says, snagging a coaster from the lounge and placing Felix’s cup on the nightstand so he has enough hands free to rearrange the powerpoint situation to fit in Felix’s bulky power adapter for his phone.

“You going to tuck me in as well?” Felix asks as Dorian fusses.

“Don’t tempt me.”

“The Iron Bull really is rubbing off on you.”

“ _Felix,_ ” Dorian says, turning and grabbing him by the shoulders, “I need you to promise me, right now, that you will never say the words “rub’, ‘off’, and “Iron Bull’ in the same sentence again. We will never live it down.”

Felix grins, “you’re the one who lives here. Seems more like a you problem than a we problem.”

“Oh, believe me,” Dorian says, “I will _make_ it a we problem.”

Dorian _doesn’t_ end up tucking Felix in before he leaves, but if he does kiss his best friend on the forehead, then that’s between them and the Maker.

* * *

It occurs to Dorian, as he gets into his side of Bull’s bed, that he has a side of Bull’s bed. That it feels near as natural as climbing into his own.

“I can’t believe you got me a Felix for Satinalia.”

“What else do you get the man who has everything?”

“Alcohol, typically.”

Bull snorts, tucking a piece of paper into his book and placing it on his night stand.

“I’m serious,” Dorian says, waiting until he can catch Bull’s eye, “this means a lot to me. More than you could know.”

“I had an idea,” Bull says, turning off his lamp.

“And I’m quite certain,” Dorian continues, switching off his own light and lying down “that I’ll be properly furious with you once I find out how much you’ve spent -- and I will find out,” he cuts Bull’s objection off before it even starts, “but right now I’m just happy.”

“You should be,” Bull says, after a moment, and Dorian feels the weight of one warm hand settle on his shoulder. It’s too dark to see much else, and too quiet to draw any more meaning, so Dorian decides to just let it be, and enjoy how easy it makes it for him to just drift toward sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone had the ability and desire to draw these delightful holiday cards I will lose my shit. Y'all are welcome to art this fic anytime you like (a queer can dream) but if someone could bring that image into being I would like... send you photos of my cat being held like a little baby or something.


	12. If Nugs Were Blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah. This update is a lot later than planned (I could probably blame it on work and the high holidays and the fact our 4 day emergency bathroom reno is now at the start of its fourth week) but to make up for it I come bearing a slightly longer chapter than usual.
> 
> Remember how I was saying that when I was writing I decided to throw in a Satinalia chapter for funsies that got so long it became two chapters? Wellllll Satinalia Part 2 got so long that I've had to split that in two as well, and thanks to where the breaks fall, it's split a but unevenly compared to my usual.
> 
> Speaking of, now's probably a good time to update the expected number of chapters (yes, again). There's still a way to go yet, and hopefully noone's too mad about there being more of this fic. I've jumped the total chapter number all the way up to 20 (because I'm working on chapter 16 right now and oh boy are we nowhere near done). Could still be more, but I'd rather push it out yet another time than overestimate and let y'all down.
> 
> I will be taking part in nanowrimo this year (and it's going to be wild to be working on something that's not this fic) so I can promise there will be an update before that all kicks off, and hopefully one soon after it ends (if not earlier), so enjoy Satinalia Part 2 with the knowledge that Part 3 won't be too far away at all!

Dorian lets Felix sleep in till a very gracious 10 o’clock the next morning. Felix needs his sleep of course, but while the time difference between Tevinter and Ferelden is small, jet lag is still a possibility, and sleeping in too long won’t help. More importantly, Dorian runs out of patience.

Unwilling to be absent when Felix wakes up, but still in dire need of Satinalia supplies (and yes, alright, the sudden presence of one’s best friend does heighten the stakes a little), Dorian sends a rather obliging Bull out a supply run and spends a solid hour sitting alone in the lounge listening intently for any sign of life on the other side of the door. When 10AM rolls around without a peep, Dorian caves, makes two cups of coffee, and climbs in with Felix. 

“Good morning sunshine,” Dorian says as he sets Felix’s cup down on the nightstand and reaches over his head to pull open a curtain (though only one as he’s a wonderful and considerate friend), “I hope you still take cream in your coffee.”

“Mmph,” Felix says.

There’s a few minutes where Dorian is insistently cheery, and Felix is insistently sleepy -- both to make a point -- before the inevitability of Dorian’s presence and the scent of freshly brewed coffee outweighs Felix’s desire to stay asleep on principle.

“This... isn’t half bad,” Felix says after taking a tentative sip of the coffee.

“What can I say,” Dorian says, “I married a man with taste. In coffee at least.”

“Dorian Pavus makes a good decision -- alert the press!”

“Don’t think I haven’t considered it,” Dorian warns him, “I figured the Satinalia cards were good enough for now.”

“What cards?”

Dorian freezes, cup of coffee halfway to his mouth. He’d decided  _ not _ to tell Felix about the cards, but rather to just send him one (without the glitter). It would have been due to arrive, well, now.

Felix’s stare sharpens on Dorian as the silence stretches and Dorian fights with the decision of whether to make Felix wait until he gets home, or let him in on the joke now.

“Hold this,” he says, handing a perplexed Felix his mug and clambering back over him and ducking out into the lounge.

“How worried should I be?” Felix calls, voice echoing through to the hallway where Dorian is ferreting through the credenza for the copy he’d kept.

“Only a token amount. A-hah!” Dorian calls back, finding the copies.

“Close your eyes,” he instructs, re-entering the room and unsure of his ability to climb over someone, retrieve a hot cup of coffee keep and his surprise hidden without splashing said coffee over either the card, the bed, or themselves.

Felix takes the moment to roll his eyes first, but complies, and Dorian maneuvers himself back into position, retrieves his drink, and replaces it with the card.

“Open.”

Felix looks down at the card in his hands, blinks twice, and promptly loses his grip on the cup. Dorian, anticipating such a reaction, is able to catch the bottom of it before it goes flying, and eases it out of Felix’s hand so he has two free with which to hold the photocard close.

“I don’t know what’s worse, the snowflake effect or your sweater.”

“What’s wrong with the sweater?”

“It’s  _ criminal _ , Dorian.”

“Perhaps, but a fun crime.”

Felix shakes his head, but there’s a turn at the corner of his mouth that drifts slowly toward a smile

“You sent these to your parents?”

“Mmhmm,” Dorian says, nodding, “to any address they might receive mail.”

The two of them hold their composure, staring each other down, until finally, Felix breaks. A snort, little more than a puff of air out his nose and then he’s doubling over in laughter, and Dorian caves too. It feels like they’re idiot teenagers again, trying to get each other in trouble for making a scene. It feels good. It feels like home.

“You seem happy,” Felix says, once he’s got enough breath back for words. Dorian isn’t sure if he’s referring to the Dorian in the photo or the one sitting next to him, or both.

“I am,” he admits, and it’s true. Not just because Felix is here, not just because he’s delighting in the pettiness of winding up his parents, but because he is.

“Really though?” And now Dorian is certain that he’s looking at the photocard, and Bull.

“As happy as I can be,” Dorian assures him.

“Couldn’t you be happier?”

“Not in this reality.”

It sounds pessimistic, when Dorian phrases it like that, and he can understand why Felix is looking at him so sadly. But this isn’t a decade ago. This isn’t Dorian sleeping with any man willing to take a risk and call him pretty. This isn’t Dorian still drunk at noon the next day, chain smoking while Felix puts him back together, prickling at any hint of optimism and insisting that ‘this is as good as it gets’.

Dorian puts his hand over one of Felix’s (steady, no tremor this time, no fear, no panic).

“It’s like saying I’d be happier if nugs were blue.”

“Would you?”

“Well,” Dorian says, “Can’t see a way it could make the world worse. Plus, it’d make Leliana happy and that alone does plenty for morale,” Dorian considers pausing to explain away the confusion on Felix’s face before deciding that that story will be better told with the subject present.

“My point is that nugs aren’t blue. My potential happiness won’t will that into existence, and even if it could, it wouldn’t be fair to turn nugs blue simply for my benefit.”

“Please tell me this is some sort of Southern idiom.”

“A Pavus original I’m afraid.”

Felix shakes his head, “Try not to be offended, but you’re taking this better than expected.”

“You say that like it’s news.”

“It is, a little,” Felix says, waving at the room, “it’s more real in reality. Hard to tell what you’re hiding when you’re a continent away. You’re coping better than I thought.”

“I’ll try to take that as a compliment,” Dorian says, without bite, “I refuse to see my friendship with Bull as a consolation prize. It... helps.”

The look Felix gives him is somehow sad at proud all at once. “Keep talking like that,” he warns, “and people will start to think this whole thing is good for you.”

* * *

As eager as Dorian is to introduce Felix to everyone he knows within a twenty mile radius, Felix has a rather limited amount of energy to work with, and given that his entire friend group will be descending on the house in less than 48 hours, Dorian convinces himself to wait. 

Felix does have two rather specific and achievable requests for sightseeing, and has Dorian take him to both the supermarket and the university.

“Unless things have changed dramatically in the last decade,” Dorian says, looking at Felix’s fascinated expression sidelong as they walk into said supermarket, “they do have these in Tevinter.”

“They’re different though,” Felix insists. Dorian can admit that he’s not wrong -- it may be well in the past but he does remember the frustration that is shopping in a country just similar enough to convince you it’ll be the same, only to leave you unable to locate familiar cereal -- but he’s not sure a supermarket had ever inspired this level of interest.

They spend far longer in the supermarket than they need to, or that Dorian had wanted to the weekend before Satinalia (the stores are closing for all of a day and yet people act as though a new blight were coming), and leave with the most eclectic cart of groceries Dorian has ever witnessed, and he’s been shopping with Sera on more than one occasion.

The second stop is the university, which is thankfully far more deserted than the shops given that most academics have either buggered off to see family or have barricaded themselves in their offices to avoid them. Dorian’s keycard still works though, and they manage not to set off any alarms as he takes Felix on what he’s certain is the Thedas’s most boring tour.

Felix insists on taking almost constant selfies with Dorian. Here’s the two of them at Dorian’s desk. Here they are with the printer. Here’s them standing in front of the window where Dorian first sighted the underwear flying from the circle tower. Here’s Felix and Dorian sitting on Dorian’s favourite bench in the park.

(Dorian finds out later that Felix is sending them directly to Mae, though whether it’s to make her more or less jealous is unclear.)

They manage not to bump into anyone Dorian knows while they’re out, though Josephine does show up on Sunday afternoon with three clipboards and the intent to do a stocktake of the kitchen. Felix is napping when she arrives, and when she gives no indication that she knows anything about his visit, Dorian decides to let it stay that way. Surprising Josephine is one of life’s little pleasures after all.

Dinner is once again takeout -- ostensibly to allow Felix to sample more of Ferelden’s fastest foods, but mostly because Dorian anticipates rather a lot of washing up to do tomorrow, and he really can’t be bothered tonight. During her visit, Bull and Dorian had managed to talk Josephine down from a 9AM breakfast to 10:30, but she’ll no doubt be arriving well ahead to be prepared; so, once the house is in as good a shape as they can hope for, and after Bull’s been sent out to brave the proverbial shitshow that is a Satinalia Eve supermarket trip, the three of them settle onto the sofas in the lounge with tea and themed TV programming and an optimistic commitment to an early night. 

* * *

Dorian’s alarm the next morning is replaced with the Iron Bull setting a fresh cup of coffee on the nightstand of what Dorian is coming to think of as ‘his side’ of the bed. He grumbles a little, just for the record, but he has to admit it’s as nice a way to wake up as any.

“How long have we got?” Dorian asks, once he’s taken the first few life-affirming sips.

“‘Til the horde descends? Couple hours probably. Josephine’ll be here in...” Bull checks his phone, “twenty-seven minutes.”

With a groan, Dorian allows himself to flop back onto the bed. He considers going back to sleep and leaving the Iron ‘Early Riser’ Bull to wrangle her, but now the caffeine is in his system and his body’s caught on to the fact that he’s already slept in longer than usual (just), there’s really no going back.

* * *

He makes it downstairs exactly three minutes before Josephine arrives. Having made the decision to stay in his pyjamas for breakfast at least (they really are very nice pyjamas and he’s had far too few chances to show them off), so all he really has to do to pull himself together is clean the sleep from his eyes, brush his teeth and tame his moustache.

Josephine arrives, as expected, exactly on time. She’s alone which wasn’t expected, but is far from surprising. It’s also, once Dorian sees the state of her car, somewhat unavoidable.

“Did you bring your entire kitchen, or just the parts that weren’t screwed down?” Dorian asks as Bull passes him carrying yet another box in from the car.

“It isn’t that much,” Josephine replies from the dead-end hallway behind the kitchen that she’s currently turning into a temporary pantry.

“I think we have different definitions of much.”

Dorian gives a token attempt at helping, but after he catches Josephine sheepishly tidying up behind him, Dorian accepts that he is likely to best serve the situation by sitting out of the way and looking pretty (such a hardship).

Once he stops trying to mess with things, and just sits back, the whole thing becomes quite entertaining. Amused disbelief at the sheer quantity of things Josephine has brought with her, mixed with the appreciative satisfaction of watching an exceedingly competent person work. She seems to be working on nearly every meal simultaneously, flicking laminated cards back and forth and marking things off with a whiteboard marker.

The logic of working on a noodle salad at the same time as frying off bacon for breakfast might elude Dorian, but the method to Josephine’s madness not only exists, but is well documented. While Josephine has left most of her cards on the table in front of Dorian and Bull, she’s moving through them in what he’s certain is a very specific, if baffling order, and they make a game of it, sipping at their coffees and pointing at the cards while Josephine’s back is turned in silent guesses as to what she’ll do next.

Dorian’s so absorbed by the whole thing that he doesn’t even notice Felix walk into the room until Josephine looks up, startles, and freezes. She’s seen pictures of him, of course, and they’ve even spoken on a video call once or twice, but familiarity with images on a screen and identifying someone in the flesh are not the same, especially without context.

Josephine looks from the strange, pyjama-wearing man in the doorway to Bull, and back again, and then to Dorian, then Felix, and then to Felix to Dorian to Bull and then Felix apparently decides to help her out before she makes herself dizzy and trips into one of the many heat sources in operation.

“Felix,” he says, stepping into the kitchen, reaching his hand out to her in the Antivan manner, palm up.

“Josephine,” she responds, still not quite putting the pieces together but taking his hand regardless.

“It’s an honour to finally meet you,” Felix says (and Dorian had forgotten what a charmer he could be).

“Finally? Oh!  _ Felix! _ ”

Ah, there we go. Josephine’s eyes go all wide like they do when she’s surprised, and then she’s letting all diplomacy go in approximately the same direction as the spatula she drops as she draws Felix in for a hug.

“When did you arrive,” Josephine asks once she finally lets Felix go, holding him out at arms length so she can get a good look at him.

“Friday.”

Josephine turns to shoot a dark look at both Dorian and Bull that Dorian’s quite certain will be followed up with a telling off later, but she seems willing to put a pin in it in favour of turning her attention to her newest guest.

They launch into discussions about their respective homes and interests, and within minutes Dorian figures he might as well take the chance to go and get dressed. It does feel a little wrong to be pulling out the centrepin of their relationship (as it is) so soon, but for all that they’re never met in person before, they have spoken before, and have heard enough about one-another that they can’t really be considered strangers. 

Plus, the Iron Bull is there if anything goes awry.

“Keep an eye on the kids for me,” Dorian says quietly, patting Bull on the shoulder as he leaves, “make sure they don’t break anything.”

“No promises.”

* * *

Dorian had taken a reasonable stash of clothing upstairs the morning after Felix arrived, to save him having to wake the man too early in the morning, but despite Bull’s accusation that Dorian had “brought his entire wardrobe up here”, Dorian spends the next twenty minutes coming to the conclusion that he has, if anything, not brought enough.

For starters, he’s not even sure how dressed up he should be. Satinalia with friends is far from a formal event -- Sera has shown up in overalls more than once, and not even her formal overalls, but Dorian has always found that a lack of dress code is more of a bother than having one. T-shirts are too informal, even the nice ones, dress shirts are far too formal, and his holiday sweater is a crime, apparently.

Options exhausted, Dorian decides he’s in need of a wider selection, and he catches sight of the kitchen as he walks down the stairs. Felix has now also been drawn into helping, and both he and Bull are sporting matching aprons and Dorian’s not sure if he wants to take a picture and show the entire world, or keep that vision for himself and himself alone. 

None of them look up as Dorian passes, there’s enough noise going on that his footfall doesn’t register, but as Dorian pauses, he sees Bull put a hand on Felix’s shoulder and ask him something quietly. Too quietly for Dorian to here it, but he doesn’t need to. He’s seen an Iron Bull check in enough times to spot it, even without sound. 

Dorian can’t hear Felix’s reply either, but whatever it is, it’s enough to satisfy Bull who smiles, and turns away only to catch sight of Dorian hovering in the doorway.

“Thought you were getting dressed?”

“No need to sound so disappointed,” Dorian shoots back, “I came down to resupply. I told you I didn’t have enough.”

“Could just stay in your pyjamas,” Bull suggests, making a vague gesture at Dorian’s entire body, “they look good on you.”

* * *

It takes a further twenty minutes and the removal of almost everything in his wardrobe, but Dorian manages to locate a silk shirt that’s soft enough and loose enough to not make him overdressed. Black with purple flowers. It’s not a shirt he’s worn often, too cautious of the closeness of it to those horrible tropical shirts, but hopefully the abundance of wintery decorations will nip that in the bud, and at the very least Bull’s sure to get a kick out of it.

When Dorian makes it back out to the kitchen this time, it’s nearing 10:20 and Josephine is on the slow wind-up to a complete flap.

“I did tell them 10:30, didn’t I?” she asks, flipping another waffle out of the waffle maker and onto the outrageously tall tower beside her.

“You did,” Dorian says soothingly, swapping the waffle tower out for a fresh plate and scanning the table for a space for them.

“Surely they should be here by now, do you think they’re okay?”

“Absolutely,” Dorian says, giving her shoulders a squeeze, “you know what Herah’s like. She’s always late but she always makes it.”

While his confidence is convincing enough to keep Josephine from winding up further, it’s also more than a little optimistic. He pulls out his phone and makes a duplicate group chat sans Josephine (which he only feels a little bad about)

> **[10:21] Dorian Pavus to Group: everyone (except josie):** you have about 15 minutes to either get here or come up with a spectacular excuse before we have a full blown meltdown. I would personally getting here.
> 
> **[10:22] Dorian Pavus sent an image**

If nothing else, the sight of a leaning tower of waffles should encourage them.

“Nice shirt.”

Dorian startles a little. For someone as large as Bull, the man is able to move exceedingly quietly.

“Thought you might like it,” Dorian says, allowing the nervous energy of his fright response to transition into preening. Felix snorts audibly from the other side of the room. Dorian’s not sure if it’s aimed at him or Bull, and decides that it’s best for all involved that he never find out.

* * *

It only makes it to a few minutes past ten thirty before the three of them make the decision to evacuate to the lounge. Dorian feels a little bad for leaving Josephine, but she’s apparently decided that she doesn’t care how many people show up (or don’t) so long at she pulls everything off perfectly, and is moving through the kitchen at a speed none of them can keep out of the way of, let alone keep up with. 

She’s all of ten metres away at most, and not a door shut between them, so he doesn’t let himself wallow too deeply in guilt.

Most of the furniture rearranging happened the day before, but there are cushions to fluff and coasters to distribute, tea towels to strategically position, and holiday music to put on (Dorian has a small and very carefully curated collection of approved Satinalia songs).

“I’ve never seen you this festive before,” Felix says, catching Dorian humming as he debates lighting one of the scented candles (pro: smells delicious, con: Sera is coming and Dorian’s not certain that Bull’s insurance covers pyrotechnic damage that happens only sort of on accident).

“Never had much of a chance to be, back then,” Dorian admits. 

“Don’t they do Satinalia in Tevinter?” Bull asks, “thought all you Andrastians were into it.”

“We do,” Felix says carefully, after a beat of silence from Dorian, “it is different though.”

Felix’s input does help to smooth things, but not enough to gloss over Dorian’s silence. Not completely, and not where Bull is concerned. Dorian has yet to look up from the candle he’s holding, but that doesn’t mean he’s unaware of the two sets of eyes staring at him. 

“Tends to be a family heavy affair,” Dorian says, putting the candle down unlit, “at best everyone gets drunk enough to make it out the other side without committing familicide.”

Felix knows where this is going, and when Dorian turns, he’s standing frozen, watching Dorian equal parts concerned and surprised. They don’t talk about this. They never do, never have. 

“And at worst?” Bull asks, question unexpected enough to pull Dorian out of the silent conversation he and Felix are having. It’s not like Bull, to push like this. and when Dorian looks to him, Bull looks almost as surprised as Dorian is that he has. 

“At worst you sell your birthright and use the money to get you on the next suspicious transport out of the country.”

There’s a part of Dorian - the part that prefers to keep history tucked out of the way and unspoken, the part that likes to play oblivious - that hopes that maybe Bull won’t put the pieces together. He’s known almost since they met that Dorian had left Tevinter for good reason, and even if Dorian hadn’t shared why, it doesn’t take much effort to put ‘flaming homosexual’ and ‘rampant homophobia’ together and get ‘better off here’. Dorian shares that fact happily, and for most part the tactic works. Most everyone leaves it at that and doesn’t press further.

They don’t ask, Dorian doesn’t tell. It’s easy enough. The rest of the story stays somewhere quiet and unseen. Maybe, if it had been someone else, they wouldn’t have put the pieces together, this and the magebane and the offhand comment, but this is  _ Bull _ . The dots are connected. Even if he can’t guess the details, he can see enough of the shape of it.

Felix, Dorian realises, is staring at them, eyes wide and brow furrowed. Felix knows because he was there, because he facilitated the suspicious transport, because he came to Dorian’s trashed apartment and helped him pack his bags when Dorian’s hands were shaking too much to do so. He also knows that he’s one of the few people who do know. 

Bull is thinking. Planning. Strategising. Dorian can see it on his face, can see he’s not trying to hide it. His fists closing and then loosening, like he’s trying to keep himself under control, like he’s trying to figure out what Dorian needs from him here.

To unhear it would be ideal, Dorian thinks, but he’ll settle for not making a big deal out of it, so he forces the tension out of his own shoulder, cuts a smile (forced, but present). Leads the way.

“Shit,” Bull says, “that’s rough, big guy.”

Somehow, as always, it’s exactly what he needed.

“I ever tell you ‘bout the Satinalia Krem and I accidentally spent in Tevinter?” Bull asks, taking the hint.

“How do you ‘accidentally’ spend a holiday somewhere?” Felix asks, at the same time as Dorian says “You’ve been to Tevinter?” 

He can’t keep the accusation out of his voice (this really is, afterall, the sort of thing Dorian should  _ know _ about Bull), and Bull’s grinning, just a bit, despite this. Like he knew this question would come. Like he was counting on it. 

“Didn’t really keep track of shit like that back then,” Bull says, looking to Felix before turning to Dorian. “A few times, briefly. More depending on how you define Seheron.”

Dorian’s luck these days tends to follow the line of ‘most theatrical’ which is often problematic, and occasionally means that Dorian has the tidy excuse of a knock on the door to excuse him from the delightfully festive topic of the sovereignty of Seheron.

“Io Satinalia,” Dorian says, opening the door to find an overly large chilly bin, behind which is a Herah.

“Io Satinalia yourself,” Herah says, shuffling inside. Dorian wraps an arm around her in as close as a hug as he can manage around the corner.

“Josie’s in the kitchen,” he says, looking over Herah’s shoulder in the front garden, “is Sera not with you?”

“In the car,” Herah explains, and Dorian pushes the door shut behind her, “she’s on the phone to  _ Dagna _ .”

“I was half expecting to see her here,” Dorian muses, following Herah through into the kitchen. She’s doing an admirable job of not knocking anything over as she goes, but an extra pair of hands  _ just in case _ can’t do any harm.

“My dear,” Josephie says, looking up from where she’s... grinding her own spice mix? “you’re here!”

“Course I am,” Herah says, putting the cooler down so she can pull Josephine into a hug, “the others will be here soon. You need some help?”

“Well, I do need to start prepping-“

“You got it,” Herah says, moving in the direction Josephine was pointing. 

“We did try,” Dorian says quietly while Josephine rifles around looking for the right laminated card. 

“All good,” Herah says, bumping his shoulder, “probably for the best. I got this.”

“First, though,” Dorian says, catching her by the elbow and pulling her into the lounge, “you need to meet Felix.”

“Felix?” Herah says, frowning, “wait,  _ Felix- _ Felix?”

“They very same.”

Herah nearly trips over Dorian in her enthusiasm in overtaking him and pushing into the lounge. By the time Dorian catches up with her, she’s already pulled Felix up out of his seat and into a crushing hug. 

“Human arms,” Dorian reminds her, spotting the look on Felix’s face over her shoulder. He doesn’t seem to be in pain so much as surprise, but Herah’s embraces are nothing if not enthusiastic.

“What are you doing here?” she asks (and that’s a question they’ll be answering a lot today).

“Celebrating Satinalia.”

“Oh, haha,” Herah says, rolling her eyes. Felix looks a little uncertain, but Herah’s mock serious face breaks within seconds. Dorian should, perhaps have warned him that there would be no on-ramp to this particular circle of friends. 

“Where were we?” Bull says, once Herah has let go of Felix and wandered back into the kitchen to give Josephine a hand, and Dorian has returned to staring at him expectantly.

“Tevinter. Satinalia. On accident.  _ Continue.” _

Bull grins and gives Dorian a look that makes him genuinely concerned that this whole thing is just a tease.

“This was back before the chargers, right?” Bull says, glancing to Felix to check that he’s following along, “Ex-military qunari and an ex-military Vint on the Nevarran border, not much above the table work to be had, so we went under. Cash jobs here and there.”

“Doing what exactly?”

“All sortsa shit,” Bull says, shrugging, “construction, farmwork, cleaning, handyman shit. Anything you didn’t need a qualification or a permit for.”

Dorian tries very hard not to think about Bull, shirtless and a little sweaty, hauling around vague, heavy objects in front of a gold-tinged Nevarran landscape. 

“Not exactly marketable, right? The two of us? But when we do shit we do it well and people tell people who tell people, and then next thing we’re doing well enough to be a little picky.

“We get a call from this guy, he’s going to his other house for a while and wants to hire us. Sweet gig, right? A bit of housesitting, some maintenance, bit of landscaping.”

Dorian is weighing up pointing out how conspicuously innocuous this beginning is when the narrative is (once again) interrupted by a knock on the door.

“I think that’s Sera,” Herah calls from the kitchen, “Dorian, can you let her in?”

“Hold that thought,” Dorian says, fixing Bull with a look as he gets up.

* * *

“Since when do you knock?” Dorian says, opening the front door to reveal one Sera Korse, as promised.

“You look like a lesbian,” Sera says, in lieu of an answer.

“You look like a twink,” Dorian shoots back. 

They hold it together for all of three seconds, before Dorian simply can’t anymore and loses himself to the sort of near-giggles that only Sera can draw out of him.

“What are you even  _ wearing _ ?” Dorian asks.

“Rich coming from a guy in a floral shirt.”

“Your sweater is cropped! It’s freezing outside, why aren’t you cold?”

“I’m hotter than you,” Sera says, shrugging. Dorian shakes his head, grabs her by one suspender strap, and drags her inside.

Herah calls a greeting from the kitchen, and Sera does lean far enough to see into the room, and apparently thinks better of venturing in, waving to both her and Josephine, and making a sharp turn for the lounge. 

“Yes,” Dorian says, almost crashing into her back as Sera stops dead, “that is Felix. Felix-Felix.”

“Huh.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Felix says standing up. 

Sera blows a raspberry. 

Felix looks a little stricken. 

“Don’t take it personally,” Dorian reassures him, “she believes good manners are a capitalist scam.”

“A theory with merit,” Felix says after a moment’s contemplation, returning to his seat. 

“I didn’t realise anyone could be posher than you,” Sera says accusingly to Dorian, but makes her way to the seat next to Felix, dropping into it and throwing her legs over his lap. 

Felix’s expression shifts into something not unlike that of a person who has had a rather standoffish cat unexpectedly decide to curl up on them and is entirely unsure what to do about it. 

Dorian, as well versed as he is in Sera, doesn’t have a clue either. He finds a seat of his own and reaches out to prod Bull’s knee with one toe, “continue.”

“With? Oh right. Was telling them about the Satinalia Krem and I accidentally spent in Tevinter,” Bull says to Sera. 

“Oh yeah,” Sera says, snickering a little. 

“How do you know this story?” Dorian asks. 

“How do you not?”

Dorian’s tempted to push her on this, but he knows a derailment when he sees one, so lets it slide and turns to Bull expectantly. 

“We were supposed to go out and see the place before we left,” Bull continues, “see what needed to be done, get the keys and shit. But Krem and I had this over job we were finishing and the guy had fancy parties and meetings and brunches and shit.”

Sera blows another raspberry. 

“Exactly. So, we don’t manage to get out there before this guy leaves, so he says he’ll send us instructions and we figure it’ll be fine. How wrong can housesitting and a little light labour go, right?”

“Ah,” Dorian says, “hubris.”

Bull nods, “we get his instructions and it’s this handwritten letter saying-”

There’s another knock. Bull makes a move like he’s going to get up and answer it, but Dorian’s quicker.

“Stay,” he says, “continue holding that thought.”

The door swings open this time to reveal Cassandra. And Varric. Together. Arriving. Together. Dorian raises an eyebrow.

“He needed a ride,” Cassandra says stiffly.

“Riiiiiiight,” Dorian says, standing aside to let them in, “To your right we have Josephine preparing fifteen meals simultaneously, enter at your own risk.”

“ _ Dorian _ ,” Josephine chides.

“And to your left,” Dorian continues, leading them through, “we have Felix Alexius.”

“A pleasant surprise,” Cassandra says, moving forward to introduce herself properly. She has to lean over Sera to do so, but Felix seems reassured by the return to something resembling a traditional social contract.

Dorian allows a (generous) minute for Cassandra and Varric to run through the ‘when did you get here?’ When do you leave?’, ‘so nice to meet you’ spiel, before leaning in and nudging Bull once more.

“Do continue,” Dorian says, loud enough to make it clear to the others. If they want to continue their little conversations,so be it, but they can’t say Dorian didn’t warn them.

“Were we interrupting?” Cassandra asks.

“Bull was telling us about the Satinalia he accidentally spent in Tevinter,” Dorian explains.

“The time with the housesitting?” Varric asks.

“How do  _ you _ know that?” Dorian demands.

“The Iron Bull told us,” Cassandra says, “is that not how it usually works?”

“ _ Continue,”  _ Dorian says, huffing just a little and turning from Cassandra and Varric. 

“Where were we?”

“Instructions.”

“Right, he’d written them in fancy handwriting, hard as shit to read, but we figure it out and we’re driving out in the middle of nowhere, in the dark, and find this fence. There’s a gate, padlocked, and the guy had sent this huge ring of keys. After about the tenth one didn’t work, we gave up. We had bolt cutters, and it was late, decided we would just replace it before he got back, right? No harm no foul.”

“I’m assuming this is but one of many ways this venture goes awry.”

“Wouldn’t be a very good story otherwise,” Bull points out, “We get to the house eventually, but only because he’s left a porch light on and it’s dark as shit out there so other than the car it’s the only light for miles. Same issue with the keys but less keen to take bolt cutters to the fancy door so I boost Krem in the pantry window.”

Dorian sighs, “points for effort there at least.”

“Appreciated.”

There’s another knock.

“Dorian?” Josephine calls from the kitchen, “it’s Cullen, could you-”

“Yes, yes,” Dorian yells back already out of his seat.

Cullen has arrived bearing wine, flowers, and a Satinalia card, though he doesn’t look to be confident in any of his choices. The effort is sweet, and Dorian’s never one to turn down wine or flowers, so he takes the gifts, pushes Cullen toward the lounge and relies on the others to manage The Felix Introduction while he braves the kitchen in search of a vase.

“Lovely to see you, Cullen,” Dorian says, putting the newly watered flowers on the coffee table when he returns, “glad to see you’ve all been introduced. Now, if you don’t mind, I have a story to hear.”

“Which one?”

“The Tevinter Satinalia one,” Varric supplies.

“Ah.”

“How do you- nevermind. Bull, continue.”

Bull, who is looking altogether too delighted with this sequence of events, does so.

“We’re there for a few days. Mostly settling in, figuring out what we’ve gotta do. The instructions aren’t quite lining up but at this point we’re not all that confident in the guy’s descriptions, so it’s a lot of educated guesses and shit, and it doesn’t really click that something’s gone sideways until a bunch of people show up.”

“I’m sure they took the presence of two unexpected strangers well.”

“Surprisingly,” Bull says, “they could have taken it worse.”

“How exactly did you manage that?

“A lot of stealth, quick thinking, and quicker talking.”

“ _ Bull _ shit.”

Dorian starts at the sound of a new voice and glances up to find Krem standing in the doorway. Dorian’s not sure if he’s grateful he hadn’t been sent to open the door again, or concerned that Krem and made his way in without anyone noticing.

“Is not!” Bull objects, grin on his face.

“Oh yeah,” Krem says, walking in from the doorway and perching himself on the back of the sofa beside Dorian, “way I remember things -- hey Felix -- was that you spent--  _ Felix _ ?”

“His fault,” Dorian says wearily, patting Krem on the shin with one hand and pointing to Bull with the other, “we can go over it later, please continue the story. I don’t really care who tells it at this point.”

Felix waves back to Krem then leans toward Sera, “does he know there’s a spare seat right there?”

“Eh,” Sera says, “Probably. It’s fine. He likes to be tall.”

“Way  _ I _ remember things,” Krem carries on, obligingly, “is half a dozen Rich Bitch Vints show up and I have to try and convince them that I’m the help they hired. Which is complicated by the fact  _ they never hired any help _ . Meanwhile Bull’s hiding out in the basement-”

“I wasn’t  _ hiding _ ,” Bull objects. Krem glares at him.

“Okay, I was hiding a little.”

“Then I have to spend the next two days running round  _ being _ the help and coming up with increasingly unlikely reasons to keep the Vints out of their own blighted wine cellar.”

“Quite a feat,” Dorian notes, genuinely impressed.

“And sneaking food down to this guy who’s just chilling out and living it up.”

“Why wait two days?” Dorian asks. “I’m assuming by the fact you’re both here and mostly intact that you got away, why wait so long?”

“You try sneaking him out of a Tevinter country house.”

“Wait-” Sera says, sitting up, “then how did you get out?”

“I thought you knew this story?” Dorian says.

“I know Bull’s version.”

“Well, uh,” Krem says, “I distracted them and we snuck out and got away.”

“Oh no,” Bull says, “no no no no, if you wanna tell this story you gotta tell the story. This door swings both ways.”

“Just like you!” Sera says, cackling.

“More of a revolving door, actually.”

“No tangents!” Dorian snaps when he sees three separate mouths all opening up to ask for clarification on exactly what the fuck that meant, “I want to hear about this distraction.”

Krem is going an interesting and unfamiliar shade of pink.

“In my defence,” Krem says, glaring at Bull, “I worked at this horror maze place for a while before this, setting up the effects and shit.”

“I  _ cannot _ begin to imagine where this is going.”

“Chicken wire,” Bull offers.

“Yeah, chicken wire,” Krem says, sighing, “we’d found a bunch before they arrived, so I made this uh, figure out of it. Kind of the shape of a guy in robes.”

“You made a  _ chicken wire magister _ ,” Dorian says, shaking his head and blinking firmly, as though that will help.

“Basically.”

“What did you  _ do _ with your chicken wire magister?”

Krem mutters something unintelligible.

“One more time?” Varric prompts, pen suddenly in hand.

“I set him up in the garden. In the evening.”

“What else did you do,  _ Krem brulee _ ?” Bull asks.

“Attached some fireworks I had.”

“And?”

Krem sighs. “And set them off.”

Someone, probably Sera, screams in delight, and the sound is enough to break the tension and even Dorian finds himself laughing helplessly, clutching at his side. The commotion enough that even Josephine comes running in, Herah right behind her.

“It worked though!” Krem asserts, once the laughter’s quieted enough that he can actually be heard over it, “they lost it and went running out to fight this imaginary magister off and we got out. Didn’t even get caught going back over the border.”

“That,” Dorian says, once there’s enough oxygen entering his lungs for him to breath and talk at the same time, “is so much better than I could have hoped.”

There’s another knock at the door.

“Who are we missing?” Dorian asks, glancing around the room, “Vivienne’s in Orlais, who else did we invite?”

There are shrugs all around, so Dorian, with less caution than he might have had without two qunari in house, goes to open the door.

“Blackwall!” he says, catching the surprise in his voice just a little too late to be helpful.

“Io Satinalia,” Blackwall says, proffering a bottle of wine and a plastic container of cookies.

“Io Satinalia,” Dorian responds, inviting Blackwall in, “thank you. It’s wonderful to see you, it’s been so long.”

“I was at your wedding,” Blackwall says gruffly (though, Dorian’s fairly sure, no more gruffly than usual).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Blackwall scene was, of course, for comedic effect and was planned far, far in advance and is not at all a reflection of the fact that the author point blank fucking forgot he insisted until writing this chapter.
> 
> The line about Sera's overalls, is however an intentional call-out to be both Sera and the author, who does in fact have several pairs of overalls, including formal ones.


	13. D4D

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your patience with me over the last couple of months. I'd hoped to put this chapter up before NaNoWriMo started but it didn't quite happen, and then NaNo happened, and then an extra 13 self-imposed days of NaNo happened and then it took me four days to edit this chapter and another... five? to actually post it.
> 
> When I started writing the Satinalia Episode (back when it was still one chapter and not... you know, three) it was... July? I think and I was amused at how out of season it was. And yet here we are, snuggled in between Hanukkah and Christmas posting the last Satinalia chapter (for real this time, I promise) -- consider it my gift to you all, given with a great amount of love for your patience and support over the past eleven months.
> 
> Speaking of gifts, the incredible [halwardpavushatersclub](https://archiveofourown.org/users/halwardpavushatersclub) made some absolutely stunning art of Bull and Dorian's Satinalia card (y'all I fuckin cried). You can find it embedded in Chapter Eleven, or on [Marcus's tumblr](https://halwardpavushatersclub.tumblr.com/post/632695603633274880/id-a-digital-drawing-of-dorian-pavus-and-the).

They manage (with considerable collective effort) to get Josephine to sit down when breakfast is finished. Felix, fitting in with the band of contradictions Dorian calls friends better than anticipated, reads the room exquisitely and plays on Josephine’s hosting instincts, capturing her in a conversation while Bull, Dorian and Varric sneak through into the kitchen to tidy up, ready for the second wave. 

“I don’t know if I’m more daunted by the number of dishes,” Dorian muses, trying to figure out where to even start, “or amazed we can see the kitchen at all.”

“She’s pretty tidy,” Varric acknowledges, pushing up his sleeve and surveying the kitchen “but even Josephine has limits. Dorian, start stacking everything dirty on that side. I’ll wash, Bull can dry.”

Varric pauses, looking for something, and Bull steps over, kicking the baseboard under the sink so the retractable step slides out.

“Huh,” Varric says, “a qunari with a built in step, that’s a new one.”

Bull just shrugs, “I have friends.”

* * *

It’s not until he’s in a contained space with other people that Dorian realises just how good he and Bull have gotten at moving around each other. The kitchen  _ really _ isn’t big enough for all of them to fit around a table, especially not with nearly every surface covered, but somehow they manage it. Even before people start filling the seats, the space left is small enough that every other step Dorian takes has him treading on someone’s foot, or bumping shoulders or stepping far too far into someone’s space.

Yet somehow, he never manages to crash into Bull, despite him being the biggest animated object in the room. It’s not that they don’t cross paths, but when they do it’s easy, smooth. Bull leaning back slightly so Dorian can squeeze past, Dorian tapping his forearm against Bull’s back to let him know he’s there, or snatching the tea towel off his shoulder as he goes past. There’s nothing that special to it, really, no magic, just practice, but Dorian can’t help but be aware of the fact that this is never something he’s really had the chance to practice before. 

When the distraction of that thought nearly results in dropping a salad bowl on Cole’s head, Dorian pushes it firmly into the Things For Future Dorian To Worry About corner and decides that is now a perfectly reasonable time to start drinking.

Despite the size of breakfast, Dorian is genuinely hungry by the time the next meal (which Josephine insists is the Antivan, afternoon version of brunch) is laid out on the table. Judging by the way those friends who weren’t in the kitchen helping in the first place are hovering in the hallway, it appears he’s not the only one.

“I’ll get Felix,” Dorian says, pulling off his apron and draping the loop over one of Bull’s horns. Dorian had sent Felix for a lie down about an hour before. He’s gotten good at picking up on the little signs of exhaustion over the years, and having more than just audio to go off of has made that even easier. He’s not sure Felix actually planned on sleeping (or would have been able to with the ruckus a wall away), but he’d made Dorian promise to fetch him for food.

“How are you feeling?” Dorian asks, pushing the bedroom door all the way open after a careful peak reveals Felix, both dressed and awake, lying on the bed with a book.

“Better,” Felix says, and it sounds true, “is it time for, uh...”

“Sera’s insisting on calling it ‘linner’, though personally I think ‘dunch’ is far more amusing.”

Dorian waits until Felix is up, so he can follow him through to the kitchen, pausing to grab the open bottle of wine that had migrated from kitchen to lounge while he wasn’t looking. It only takes a few extra seconds to do so, if that, but it’s enough that by the time Dorian makes it into the kitchen, he does so just in time to see Felix take the last remaining seat. 

“I could have sworn...” Dorian says, scanning the table to figure out who he missed when he was setting the chairs out.

“Oh!” says Josephine, catching on to Dorian’s hover, her own eyes scanning the room for a solution.

“You could sit on the Iron Bull,” Cole says.

(Sera, already tucking into her food snorts so hard that Dorian’s almost certain a pea comes flying out her nose. He decides not to dwell on it.)

“Here,” Josephine says, starting to stand. Dorian shakes his head and opens his mouth to object but is only rewarded with the sound of Felix also attempting to give up his seat.

“No, no, no,” Dorian says, waving them both off, “don’t be silly.”

“Where are you going to sit?” Cassandra asks.

“I have a folding chair in the car,” Blackwall offers.

“Bull!” Dorian says, cutting in before Varric has the chance to offer his own creative solution, “I’ll sit with Bull.”

Dorian turns to him, hoping he’s not jumped the gun, but Bull just shrugs and pushes his seat back. 

If the seating space it limited, the table space is even more so. Dorian spends a solid minute trying to find a way to fit both his and Bull’s plates on the table without knocking anything off before giving up entirely and leaning across Bull to the cupboard and ferreting around until he can pull out one of the few serving dishes Josephine hasn’t gotten to yet.

It’s bigger than either of their plates, but a better shape to fit in the space they have. Dorian starts serving them up without explanation. If people are going to say something about it, it will not be on Dorian’s encouragement.

Eating from Bull’s lap -- while  _ sitting on _ Bull’s lap, rather, is not the easiest thing in the world, but they manage. Bull has enough height that even with Dorian sitting on top of him, his face isn’t entirely blocked. Dorian ends up with a fork in his right hand which is awkward but not unachievable, and once the others have become distracted enough by their food to  _ not be staring _ , and Dorian gets dragged into a conversation or two, he can forget the ridiculousness of the situation (which he really should be resigned to by now) and settle in.

* * *

Second major meal of the day completed, Cassandra takes the kitchen shift, and when Dorian catches Josephine trying to sneak out to the car for more boxes of supplies (what they could possibly contain, and where in the void they’re going to go is a mystery), he has to attempt to execute a very gentle attempt at what Sera has informed him is a “hip check” to get himself in between her and the door. 

“Josephine, my dear, I don’t know that there’s any room left in the house.”

“Oh,” Josephine says, glancing back to the head high stack of boxes behind her, “I’m sure it’ll be fine. I can always take some of the others back out.”

There’s a glint in her eye that makes it clear to Dorian that there will be no winning of the argument about whether she  _ needs _ the boxes, but who fetches them might be up to debate.

“Surely you need a rest,” Dorian says, shuffling forward so he can see into the lounge, and waving in the direction of Krem and Bull, “how about we ask these two strapping lads to help you out.”

“That’s sexist!” Sera yells out from... behind the TV?

Dorian sighs. “You’re quite right. How about we ask these two  _ ex-handy men _ to fetch them for you.

* * *

“So,” Krem says, opening the boot of the car and giving Bull a look, “you flew Felix here. To Ferelden.  _ From Tevinter _ .”

“Swimming didn’t seem like a viable option.”

“It’s not really the mode of transport I’m surprised by, chief. Bringing Dorian’s best friend over for Satinalia’s a pretty big deal.”

Bull just shrugs and reaches past Krem to grab a box, “I had the means.”

“And the motivation?”

“I wanted to make him happy.”

“Why?” Krem asks, and Bull gives him a look like he’s just asked how Bull feels about redheads. 

“Because I care about him,” Bull says slowly, “and I like making him happy. What’re you getting at, Krem Puff?”

Krem scowls, and shifts the box to his hip so he can shut the boot, “just trying to make sure I understand. You care about Dorian?”

“Yeah.”

“And you like him?”

“Wouldn’t have offered to marry him if I didn’t.”

“Right,” Krem says, scanning the windows for onlookers, “and you like spending time with him and making him happy no matter how big the effort.”

“Sounds about right.”

“And that’s all? No other... desires or hopes? No daydreams?”

“Well, there is this one with the-“

Krem cuts him off, “that was an  _ if question _ not a  _ what question _ .”

Bull grins, “I wouldn’t turn him down if he came looking.”

“Oh,” Krem says, “like the — what are we up to now? Half a dozen times you ‘didn’t turn him down’?”

“That was different,” Bull argues, “we cleared up that shitshow and Dorian doesn’t want any more than that.”

“And what do  _ you _ want?”

“A happy husband?”

* * *

Second dishes shift under control, and Josephine appeased, those without jobs to do arrange themselves around the house to give those with the jobs room to work. Herah and Josephine head up to the study nook to call Harah’s parents, and Sera goes outside to call Dagna, again (Dorian does offer her a bedroom to use but she’s apparently taking some pride in the whole ‘standing out in the cold’ thing). 

Dorian isn’t quite in need of a lie down himself, but between the chaos of the morning and a full belly, he finds himself relaxing into the couch, legs thrown over Bull’s for comfort, half an ear on the conversation Felix and Krem are having. 

It’s interesting, watching them navigate each other. Both fully aware of how different this would play out back home, both uncomfortable with what Tevinter means, but equally comforted by a sense of home. Krem is cautious, but willing. Felix, if anything, is trying a little too hard. 

Dorian looks up at the sound of footsteps that are unmistakably Herah’s (if only because Bull’s steps are ruled out) to find her hovering by the couch looking at Bull.

“My folks wanna say hi to you,” she says, looking almost embarrassed. “ _ Both _ .”

“Sure thing, boss,” Bull says, taking the phone.

“Oh!” Herah says, snatching her phone back and holding it against her shoulder, covering it with her hand, “they uh, don’t know,” she says, almost whispering.

“About what? Dorian asks.

Herah wiggles her finger at them both and makes some sort of circle gesture.

“You didn’t tell them about the wedding?”

“No they know that, they just uh, you know.”

“You told them we got for-real married?” Dorian says. He’s only met Herah’s parents a couple of times. They live North, in the Marches, and they’re not exactly the type to rat them out to immigration.

“I didn’t,” Herah insists, “I thought I explained it but they just sort of... assumed.”

“As did mine,” Josephine admits.

“What-” Dorian shakes his head, “am I missing something here?”

“Isn’t it a good thing?” Bull asks, when no one sees fit to respond, “means we’re pulling it off, right?”

“I suppose,” Dorian says, “I just feel as though I  _ should _ be offended.”

There’s a squawk from Herah’s phone.

“Oh, shit!” Herah says, pulling it away from her chest and shoving it into Bull’s hand.

Bull takes it and angles the screen so both he and Dorian are in shot.

“Io, Satinalia,” Dorian says, smiling. 

“You too,” Meerad says, jostling with Salit to try and get into the middle of the screen “and congratulations! We’re so sorry we couldn’t come, it was just such short notice.”

“We don’t waste time here,” Bull says, and they laugh. 

Salit says something in qunlat that Dorian doesn’t follow.

“Doin’ good,” Bull says, in common, glancing at Dorian.

_ It’s okay _ , Dorian mouths back. He can understand the appeal of speaking in your own language, and he’s quite alright not being included if it gives them that chance.

The conversation continues, and Dorian lets himself drift off of the screen. He knows a little bit of qunlat. A couple of words and phrases here and there, but not enough to follow along. After a few minutes he realises that this is perhaps the most qunlat he’s ever heard Bull speak.

Herah speaks it, but Bull’s common is better than her qunlat so that’s almost always what they settle with. Josephine is also fluent, apparently, though she’s been playing that close to the chest. Really, the only times Dorian’s heard Bull speaking qunlat is when he’s pissed off and muttering to himself, or when they’re out in public and Bull gets spotted by a lost qunari traveller in desperate need for directions.

It’s almost meditative, listening, until Bull’s posture stiffens considerably, and he says something that makes Krem (who also knows more qunlat than Dorian, apparently) turn sharply and give Bull A Look.

“What did I miss?” Dorian says, frowning, when a glance at the phone reveals both of Herah’s parents looking at him.

Meerad chuckles, “he called you, uh...”

“Sweetheart,” Bull provides, quickly. Too quickly,

“Really?” Dorian says, looking to Krem for confirmation, and catching him mid eyeroll, though for once it seems to be aimed at Bull more than Dorian himself.

“Yeah,” Krem says, after a moment’s hesitation, “pretty much.”

Dorian is prevented from probing further by the front door banging open to admit Sera.

“Pre-sents! Pre-sents! Pre-sents!”

“I gotta go,” Herah says, sighing as she plucks her phone out of Bull’s hand, tilting the screen so her parents can see. 

They all give a collective farewell, while Dorian sends Sera to fetch Leliana and Cassandra from the kitchen, and does a final gathering round, making sure all presents are accounted for and piled in the basket on the table. He’s tempted to try and put Sera off, just to protest the interruption, but he’s also not a complete fool.

“Shift the bottles out of range, would you?” Dorian mutters to Bull, eyeing up the champagne sitting by the sofa.

The tradition, as Dorian understands it (second-hand and through narrators of questionable reliability) is that families in Ferelden would gather round at home on Satinalia, and one person would be elected to hand gifts out to the rest of the family, after which they would head off to visit others. 

_ Their _ tradition involves everyone bringing their presents along, piling them into a reassigned laundry basket to be opened at some arbitrary point as determined by Sera who is also the one who hands out presents. 

(Dorian had attempted to mess with the system once, in the early days, more out of a desire to stir than any real objection to the ways things are, and had resolved only minutes later to never try that again)

Tags are rarely necessary, as Sera has a somewhat unsettling ability to correctly guess who the gift is for around 80% of the time, and on the occasions she’s wrong, the size of the group keeps her busy enough that mistakes can be quietly swapped behind her back. 

It becomes something of a game, trying to keep up with one’s own present unwrapping, while still keeping an eye on everyone else, to catch their responses. Dorian likes to consider himself a talented gift giver, and while the main motivation is, of course, making one’s friends happy, that doesn’t have to preclude you from gaining some satisfaction for the job also. 

* * *

Dorian’s watching, entranced, as Cullen very sincerely and earnestly thanks Cassandra for the deep red, heritage wool socks Cassandra has given him when he spots a familiar parcel making its way into Bull’s hands.

Bull’s familiar enough with Dorian’s wrapping scheme that he doesn’t need to guess, and gives Dorian a curious look as he turns it over a few times, trying to figure out what the present is, before shrugging and ripping into the paper.

“Just what I’ve always wanted,” Bull says, tilting his head from one side to the other trying to make sense of the black and pink neoprene tube in his hands, “a, uh...”

“Knee sleeve.” Dorian explains, “and I know you don’t like magic,” he says, when Bull’s fingers pause over the carved plastic square stitched in the seam, “but Dagna assured me that runes aren’t really magic, and she is a dwarf, so...”

“What does it, you know, do?”

“Here,” Dorian says, taking Bull’s hand and guiding it into the sleeve, and then pressing his own finger against the rune until it pulses softly.

“What am I waiting fo-” Bull starts, sentence dying off as the heat runes do their work. “Huh.”

“I thought it might be helpful on those days you insist on doing too much,” Dorian explains, “or when the weather is bad, or,” he glances at the others, ‘when you think throwing full-grown elves around is a sensible idea.”

“It will,” Bull says, his hand catching Dorian’s before it pulls away, holding onto it for just a second, “thanks.”

It’s earnest, and Bull’s holding the knee sleeve tight, like it’s precious, and Dorian’s usual thrill at a gift successfully given is sidelined by the sense that he’s stepped further than he meant to, but then Bull’s leaning over the side of the couch to grab something of his own.

He sits back up and offers Dorian a long thin object, awkwardly wrapped in layers of overlapping paper.

“A fence post?” Dorian says, hand to his chest, “you shouldn’t have.”

Bull rolls his eye and hands it over.

“Really though,” Dorian says, “you shouldn’t. You already brought Felix over.”

Bull shrugs, “ordered this before that. No sense in not giving it to you.”

Dorian considers arguing the point (he’s not sure what point but is quite certain he can come up with something), but his rather oversized present is starting to draw attention, and Sera’s got that look in her eye that tells Dorian he has about fifteen seconds before the innuendo starts flying unless she’s distracted, and he starts peeling off the paper instead.

It takes until he’s gotten half the paper off to figure out what he’s holding. It’s a staff, or something like a staff. Not a mage’s staff -- they tend to be asymmetric, with detail at one end and nothing, or only a blade, at the other.

This, Dorian discovers as he shakes away the last of the wrapping, has things at each end, and a grip in the middle. 

“Give it a spin,” Bull says, when Dorian looks to him for clarification. 

It’s not exactly the ideal place for it, but with everyone seated, Dorian might be able to give it a careful horizontal spin above their heads. Standing to give himself a little more room to work with, Dorian does just that. Slow and cautious, unfamiliar with the weight of it. As the ends start to move through the air, they begin to glow. Softly, then faster the quick Dorian’s movements.

“Whoa!” Sera says, eyes wide, as she jumps up, knocking over the wine bottle that Bull had yet to get around to moving, “gimme a turn!”

Dorian holds it away from her sneaky little hands, and makes the most of his armspan to fish a familiar present out of the basket and toss it to her as a distraction.

“I know it’s not like, magic-magic,” Bull says, “but it looks cool.”

He’s right. It isn’t magic. Not even close, but already Dorian is visualising what his practice might look like, what drills and moves he might string together, how it would look. How it would feel to be in the middle of a storm of lights, whatever the origin.

It’s not magic, but it’s something else to be good at.

* * *

Felix, to everyone’s surprise, including Dorian, has brought presents for everyone. Little things, but clearly full of thought. Books for Josephine and Varric, (debatably illicit) seedlings for Herah, a chess set for Cullen, fancy candies for Sera and even a bottle of wine set aside for Vivienne.

Even if they hadn’t been won over by him already (which, for the most part, they were), this alone would have done it. Josephine and Cassandra in particular seem distressed to have nothing to give him in return, but Felix, bless him, tells them quite earnestly that meeting them was gift enough.

“A toast,” Cullen says, “to new friends, and old ones.”

“To there bein' three whole Vints who aren’t arseholes!” Sera chimes in.

“T’good food and good people!” Bull says, grabbing the bottle of champagne that Sera had tipped over.

“Bull-” Dorian says, only to be drowned out by Varric’s ‘to stories worth telling’.

“Careful!” Dorian tries again, reaching for Bull’s arm and missing as Bull stands up. 

Bull starts working on the cork, and Dorian tries one more time, “ _ wait!” _

Bull turns, too late, just at the cork goes flying out of the top of the bottle, embedding itself in the ceiling at most of a bottle’s worth of overly agitated sparkling wine sprays upward and outward, covering everyone in the room like an exceedingly isolated, sticky rainfall.

“I  _ told _ you not to leave that where it could get knocked around,” Dorian says, taking a deep breath and pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“That,” Bull says, looking slowly around the room, “was my bad.”

“No, really?” Dorian says, ignoring Sera’s barely smothered giggles and mentally planning out how exactly they’re going to get any of this cleaned up. The soggy wrapping paper alone is going to be a mission.

“I got it,” Herah says. Dorian  _ assumes _ she means she means the wrapping paper, or fetching towels, or some other practical activity, which is unfortunate, because if he’d been paying a tad more attention he might have cottoned on to what she was planning early enough to do something about it.

Herah’s a mage. A powerful one by all accounts. The kind of powerful that Dorian’s racist, breeding (or, let’s be honest here,  _ eugenics _ ) obsessed ancestors would have insisted was impossible. Her  _ skill _ however, is somewhat... unpolished. From what he’s witnessed, Herah’s magic tends to have all the characteristics of an excitable puppy fresh out of a growth spurt. 

It works well enough for straight-forward spells. For keeping chillybins cool or striking logs with lightning to encourage mushrooms to grow. A spell to lift spilled wine out of every surface in the room doesn’t quite fall into that category.

Felix picks up on the misphrasing in Herah’s spell the same moment Dorian does. Which is to say, a moment too late to stop her finishing it, and a moment too late to prevent every drop of alcohol in the building evaporating at once.

It does, at least, solve one of their problems.

“That,” Herah says hesitantly, as Dorian squeezes behind the couch to get into the liquor cabinet on the off-chance, that just maybe something had been saved, “didn’t feel quite right.”

“I suppose,” Dorian says, unscrewing the lid of a (now empty) dark glass bottle of liquor and upending it, “that depends on your intention.”

Herah looks so distraught that Dorian’s annoyance burns itself out almost immediately. On the downside, they’re now entirely out of alcohol. On the upside, Dorian’s not going to have to spend the rest of the day cleaning only to still have the house smell like it’s been ravaged by a horde of university students.

If anyone, Bull’s really the one to blame here, for making a mess in the first place.

* * *

“I haven’t had much to drink,” Felix says, once they’ve established that  _ all _ the alcohol on the property (including the bottles that Josephine had insisted on bringing in from the car) has vanished, “I can drive to the shops to get some more?”

“They will all be closed,” Cassandra informs him.

“Oh.”

“Luckily,” Dorian says, joining them in the hallway, “I know a guy. Herah, where are Varric’s keys?”

“Why are you asking her?” Varric says, reaching into his pockets and coming up empty.

“That’s why,” Dorian says, holding his hand out as Herah sheepishly hands them over.

“I can go,” she says, “it was my fault.”

“Hush,” Dorian says, patting her on the arm, and giving Bull a stoney look, “you were far from the only person responsible for our current situation.”

"Yeah, ya bubbly fuck," Sera says, elbowing Bull with a grin and a wink.

Bull at least, has the decency not to argue with either of them.

“Plus,” Dorian continues, using Herah to balance as he pulls on his shoes, “I could do with the walk and frankly I don’t have great confidence in any of your selections.”

“I  _ own _ a bar,” Varric objects.

“My point stands,” Dorian asserts, opening the front door. “If you could try not to destroy the house in my absence that would be much appreciated. You could try experimenting with sitting quietly and not touching anything.”

The door shuts behind Dorian firmly, and for a minute there’s silence. 

“Did Mr Northern Fancy Pants  _ really _ just storm out without a coat?” Varric asks.

“Yep,” Bull says, somehow managing to sound both resigned and surprised.

“He’s gonna freeze his poor liddle toesies-woeies off,” Sera chimes in, sounding almost concerned.

“He’ll come back and get it,” Felix says, “surely.”

Krem snorts, “haven’t you know him for like... 20 years? He’s the dictionary definition of stubborn in a half-dozen languages.”

“Twenty-eight,” Felix corrects, “and you have a point.”

The Iron Bull shakes his head wearily and reaches into the coat cupboard under the stairs, pulling out his own coat, Dorian’s, and an armful of assorted knitwear, shrugging on the coat, tucking the rest under his arm, squeezing past the small crowd of houseguests now gathered and out the door.

“Is he... coming back?” Felix asks.

Varric laughs. “Magic eight-ball says: unlikely.”

* * *

For want of a better suggestion, they do in fact, end up sitting quietly in the lounge. 

“It’s hard,” Cole says into the awkward hush of the room. “Pretending not to feel the way he does, when he keeps reminding him of  _ why  _ he does. Sometimes it’s like he could close his eyes and believe he feels that too. Makes it better and worse all at the same time.”

“Perhaps if you talked to him,” Felix says, turning to Krem with a sigh. “Asked him to stop. I know he means well but..”

“Me?” Krem says, “why don’t you tell him?”

“I really think it would be better coming from you.” 

Krem snorts, “He’s your friend.”

“And yours.”

“You’ve known him way longer than I have, that makes him your problem.”

“Wait,” Felix says sitting back in his chair, “who are you talking about?”

“Dorian, who are  _ you _ talking about?”

“The Iron Bull.”

The two sit and stare at each other, frowning, until Varric’s laughter draws their attention.

“ _ I  _ was going to make fun of our two favourite dunderheads for being unbelievably oblivious, but turns out you two aren’t far behind.”

“I don’t know what  _ he’s _ on about,” Krem snaps back, “but we’re all seeing this, right? I know the chief's a flirt, but there’s flirting and there’s stringing people along.”

“What do you  _ mean _ ‘stringing him along’”, Felix demands, “The Iron Bull’s the one who keeps making offers he doesn’t mean.”

Krem just gapes at him.

“I think,” Josephine says, calmly, “that we have a slight miscommunication on our hands.”

Krem and Felix look at each other, then away.

“Felix,” Josephine continues, “would you mind... elaborating?”

“Is it not completely obvious?”

“Humour us.”

“I don’t know if I should...” Felix says, bringing his hand to his mouth and hesitating for a moment before shaking his head. “Dorian has feelings. For The Iron Bull. Though I’m guessing from your faces that that’s somewhat obvious at this point.”

“That... does make sense,” Josephine says, “Krem, could you share your perspective with us?”

Krem grumbles. “I guess. The chief's... well you saw, right? He hasn’t  _ said _ anything but he won’t shut up about it. About him. But Dorian’s all ‘no thanks’ so Bull’s too busy respecting his boundaries to let himself feel anything.”

“Wait,” Sera says, “if Dorian’s all in love with Bull, and Bull’s all in love Dorian, what aren’t they, y’know...” her hands move in a complicated, abstract and yet somehow inherently sexual gesture. 

“I, er, thought they already were,” Cullen says, going pink. Cassandra gives him a look.

“Right, so Dorian’s somehow convinced himself that Bull isn’t interested,” Blackwall says, leaning forward.

Leliana nods. “Despite ample evidence to the contrary.”

“And The Iron Bull believes Dorian has no affection for him,” Cassandra continues, voice rising, “when both very clearly have feelings for one another!”

There’s a pause while they all process Cassandra’s outburst.

“Fuck the Maker,” Krem says, dropping his head into his hands, “it’s like dumbass 4 dumbass over here.”

Sera leans forward conspiratorially, “do we, y’know, do something about it?”

“Like what?” 

Herah shrugs, “tell them?”

Krem looks up and raises an eyebrow, “if you’re volunteering to have that conversation, then be my guest.”

Herah opens her mouth to respond but thinks better of it before anything comes out.

“Perhaps,” Leliana says, “we simply nudge them in the right direction. Subtly.”

“And if that doesn’t work?” Varric asks.

“Then we be less subtle.”

“What does a subtle nudge look like exactly?” Cullen asks.

“Perhaps we could-” Josephine says, before being cut off by a gentle shush from Cole, leaving a silence just long enough for the footsteps approaching the front door to be heard.

“We’ll figure it out later,” Krem says, quickly, “for now just, be cool, okay?”

The footsteps reach the door and there’s a pause, followed by an odd, rather muffled knock. Herah bounces out of her seat and opens the door to admit Dorian and Bull, arms so heavy loaded up with alcohol that apparently neither of them could manage a door handle. Each wearing a single glove, and with one overly long scarf wrapped somehow around both necks.

“This might,” Felix says quietly, voice pitched low enough that only Krem can hear, “be more of a challenge than anticipated.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual we have an obscure reference in there (though really we're stretching the limits of what counts as a reference) and there's ten points up for grabs to anyone who spots it (or spots an unintentional reference I might have made because that's fun too).
> 
> I'm hoping to have another chapter up early to mid-january, but I'm struggling a touch with the chapter I'm currently working on, so we'll see how it goes. Look after yourselves, stay as safe as you can, and I'll see y'all next year!


	14. Beautiful and High Maintenance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back! As much as we've been enjoying Satinalia, all good things must come to an end and we're finally moving into the next stage. Honestly, this chapter was so much fun to write, I had such a good time with it and I'm hoping you all have as much of a good time reading it.
> 
> It may be a bit of a device-thrower of an episode (but a fun one!) so if you're prone to that, please take appropriate precautions and feel free to yell at me in comments/on tumblr rather than on your device.
> 
> Also, just realised it's been nearly a year since I started posting this "ten chapter" fic which is just wild to me. Thank you to everyone who's been reading along, leaving kudos and comments, it honestly means so much to me.

Dorian manages to keep a lid on his near-existential dread until the night before Felix has to leave. His flight isn’t particularly early the next morning, and one of the benefits of living in a city with a just-barely-international airport is that making your way through security is a relatively quick process, even when you’re leaving the country.

Nevertheless, Felix still has a long day ahead of him, and Dorian insists he go to bed early, only to find himself poking his head around the door an hour later and asking Felix in a whisper whether or not he’s awake. Felix just shifts over in the bed and they spend the night talking quietly in the dark like they’re children again. 

“We can’t let it be this long again,” Dorian says softly, letting Felix’s breathing lull his own into something resembling relaxed, “I’ll come to you if I have to.”

“Hush,” Felix says, and for a moment Dorian thinks he’s being scolded for talking, “I’d turn you around and put you right back on the plane.”

“It wouldn’t be that bad.”

“Dorian, no,” Felix says, turning to face him in the dark, “putting you on that boat was one of the saddest days of my life, but also one of the happiest.”

“I’m sure it would be fine,” Dorian says, not sure why he’s even arguing this point, “it was a decade ago and plenty of queers survive. _You’re_ still living there.”

“Yes,” Felix admits, “but _most_ of us don’t have fathers with diplomatic immunity and a flexible stance on blood magic.”

“Just pseudoscience,” Dorian deflects.

Felix sighs, “we’re working on it. I told him if he wanted me to try something he had to be willing to give a lecture on it to the other professors, seems to be weeding out most of the nonsense. That and I ask Mae to give him a hard time.”

“You should both come,” Dorian says, “next time.”

“Deal,” Felix says, “next time.”

* * *

Airport parking is ludicrously overpriced, so Bull drops the two of them off at the terminal gate so he can go and run a few of the errands they’ve been putting off due to Felix’s visit. Bull treats Felix to a full Iron Bull hug (which Dorian may or may not have taken a sneaky photo of) before he leaves, then recites a list of essentials to make sure he has anything.

“Call me if you realise you’re missing something,” he offers, leaning out the window, before turning to stare down the parking warden who’s yelling at him to move.

“Of course,” Dorian says, waving him off.

“Let’s get inside,” he says, to Felix this time, “before he gets himself in trouble.”

* * *

“I know you’re sworn to secrecy,” Dorian says, (and bugger it all but despite his best efforts, Dorian had been unable to make either of them cave on the details or cost of Felix’s trip), “but I know for a fact that flying in to New Haven directly must have cost a pretty penny.”

“I said the same,” Felix admits, pushing his carry-on further under the bench to let a family move past, “but the trip’s almost twice as long with the stopover in Denerim, and he insisted.”

“That does sound like Bull.”

Dorian nods, glancing up at the departure boarding and pointing to the screen as the status of Felix’s flight flips over to **PLEASE PROCEED TO SECURITY**.

“He’s a good man,” Felix says, pushing himself off the bench, “he cares about you.”

“I’m lucky to have him as a friend.”

“And a husband.”

“ _Felix_ ,” Dorian says, rolling his eyes and picking up the bag.

“Hear me out,” Felix insists as they start walking, “I know you’re over games, and I’m not asking you to get your hopes up, but maybe just be... open. Worst case scenario you’re still good friends.”

“What exactly makes you think things are going to be any different now?” Dorian asks as they joining the security line, “Did he say something?”

“No...” Felix admits, “but it takes people a while to figure things out sometimes.”

Dorian wants to argue, to point out that ‘a while’ is well behind them at this stage, but they’re shuffling in line, fast reaching the point where Dorian has to leave, and he’s not planning on spending his last few moments with Felix like that. 

Instead, Dorian pulls him into a tight hug. 

“I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you as well.”

* * *

> **[Direct message]**
> 
> **[22:31 | Felix Alexius]** Are there any qunari dishes that the Iron Bull misses that could be recreated in a Ferelden kitchen? Asking for a friend.
> 
> **[22:40 | Cremisius Aclassi]** Herah’s Tama does a spiced baked fish that he loves. I’ll get you the recipe.
> 
> **[22:43 | Felix Alexius]** Much appreciated!
> 
> **[09:21 | Cremisius Aclassi has sent an attachment]**

* * *

“ _Varric,_ ” Dorian hisses into the phone pinched between ear and shoulder, “ _is he still there_?”

“He’s just leaving,” Varric says, “why are you whispering?”

“I don’t want him to hear.”

“He’s here, Dorian. For now at least. I don’t think he can hear you.”

“Can you- _kaffas!_ ” Dorian’s attempt to continue the conversation while pulling trays out of the oven and _not_ burning himself fails, “can you stall him. Just for a bit. Say you need help moving a heavy thing or chasing off some slimy bastard. I just need another ten minutes.”

Dorian glances back at the table, it’s earlier laid setting now cluttered with utensils, “make that fifteen.”

* * *

> **[Group Chat: Operation D4D]**
> 
> **[19:03 | Varric]** does anyone know what Pavus is up to and why Tiny isn’t allowed home yet?
> 
> **[19:04 | Krem]** romantic dinner
> 
> **[19:04 | Varric]** that was quick!
> 
> **[19:04 | Josephine]** How exciting!
> 
> **[19:04 | Vivienne]** Ah, that would explain the flowers and candles Dorian requested.
> 
> **[19:05 | Cullen]** Don’t take this the wrong way, but does anyone know if Bull has a fire extinguisher?
> 
> **[19:05 | Krem]** one in every room with a heat source and a spare behind the toilet dw
> 
> **[19:05 | Varric]**...that’s a very specific location
> 
> **[19:05 | Krem]** it’s a very specific story, remind me to tell you some time.
> 
> **[19:05 | Varric]** I’ll hold you to that.
> 
> **[19:08 | Varric]** shit, he left! someone call him!
> 
> **[19:08 | Josephine]** And say what?
> 
> **[19:08 | Varric]** I dunno, say your house is on fire or something, get creative!
> 
> **[Cole has joined the chat]**
> 
> **[19:08 | Cole]** it’s alright. the iron bull’s keys are behind the pretzels when you’re ready for him to leave.
> 
> **[19:09 | Varric]** thanks, kid... i think?

* * *

“So,” Varric says, propping his feet up on Josephine’s coffee table, “enough about my shit of a week, how’s yours been?”

“Not bad,” Bull says, taking a mouthful of beer, “work was crazy -- there’s a bug goin’ round.”

“Any highlights?” Josephine prompts.

“Hmm, Dorian made seven spice fish the other night, that was pretty great. Tasted just like your Tama’s actually,” Bull says, nodding at Herah.

“Wow,” Varric says, catching sight of Dorian hovering in the kitchen doorway pretending not to listen as he dries the dishes, “that sounds pretty _special_.”

“That’s one word for it,” Bull agrees, “he had candles and flowers and shit, it was something else.”

“Candles _and_ flowers,” Josephine says, leaning forward a little, “that certainly is something.”

Varric risks a glance over to Dorian who’s now standing alarmingly still.

Bull shrugs. “I know! I knew Vints were fancy, but I didn’t realise they were _that_ into it. Maybe he’s missing Felix.”

“I’m sure that’s it,” Josephine says placatingly, before yelping and turning to look at Herah, “What- _oh._ ”

“You okay?” Bull asks, frowning.

“Perfectly alright,” Josephine assures him, a touch breathless, “Herah was just reminding me that I uh...”

“You have to call Felix, right?” Varric supplies.

“Yes! Precisely. He wanted my, er, input on some Antivan documents.”

When Varric looks up again, Dorian has vanished.

> **[Group Chat: Operation D4D]**
> 
> **[20:01 | Varric]** TIL that Vints spend hours baking specialty dishes for their husbands and setting the table with candles and flowers because they love being fancy -_- who’s next?

* * *

> **[Direct message]**
> 
> **[12:33 | Krem]** does Dorian have a favourite flower?
> 
> **[12:47 | Felix]** That’s a rather promising question. He’s partial to orchids.
> 
> **[12:50 | Krem]** somehow, that doesn’t surprise me at all.

* * *

“How can one flower be so expensive?” Bull says, staring in horror at the pricetag on the plant in front of him, “it’s a pretty flower, but _shit_.”

“They’re finicky to grow,” Herah says, shrugging, “and the owner’s a friend, I’m sure I can get a discount.”

“This is alive, right?” Bull asks, gingerly picking one up, “like I won’t take it home and have to throw it out in a week?”

“Hopefully not, but they do take some looking after. You think that one?”

“Yeah. I mean, I like that one better,” he says pointing at the one by his elbow with pale petals striped with pink, “but I think this is more Dorian’s style.”

The centre... petal things are white, but the others are a deep purple, so dark they’re almost black in places. It’s the same colour as that shirt Dorian wears sometimes. The tight one.

“I’m sure,” Herah says, picking up the plant, “that he’ll love it.”

* * *

“This is new,” Cassandra says as nodding at the flower on the coffee table as she sits down and pulls out her book. 

“Hmm? Oh, yes. Bull got it for me,” Dorian says, pulling his own copy of Varric’s latest out and offering Cassandra a pencil.

“That’s very kind of him,” Cassandra says, taking said pencil, “any particular reason why?”

“It’s _‘beautiful and high maintenance,’_ ” Dorian says, snorting, “just like me apparently. Jokes on him though, I’m actually quite fond of orchids.”

* * *

> **[Group chat: Operation D4D]**
> 
> **[16:04 | Cassandra has sent an image]** I have been informed that this is apparently a ‘prank orchid’.
> 
> **[16:07 | Herah]** Not at that price it bloody wasn’t!

* * *

> **[Group chat: Inner Circle]**
> 
> **[14:34 | Dorian has sent an image]**
> 
> **[14:34 | Dorian]** I’m fairly certain I know who is responsible here, but if for some reason one of you is... unbelievably high and thought this was a good idea, bring them back. Now. 

> **[Group chat: Operation D4D]**
> 
> **[14:36 | Varric]** Don’t get me wrong here, Sera I really do appreciate the enthusiasm, but what part of “nicking all their pants” is supposed to be romantic?
> 
> **[14:37 | Sera]** never said it was meant to be romantic
> 
> **[14:37 | Felix]** then what were you trying to achieve?
> 
> **[14:38 | Sera]** butts
> 
> **[14:39 | Herah]** I mean, she’s not wrong.

* * *

> **[Direct message]**
> 
> **[10:44 | Krem]** _Laurels,_ y/n?
> 
> **[10:52 | Felix]** A high school black comedy in which homophobes get murdered? Yes. Just make sure you get decent seats.
> 
> **[10:53 | Felix]** Be warned. He will bitch about everything the entire time, it’s how he shows appreciation.

* * *

“Josie?” Bull says, holding his phone to his ear with one hand as he brings up the map on his computer screen, “you know about theatre shit, right?”

“I’m familiar.”

“Good. I need to know if these seats are any good. Sending you a picture now.”

There’s a small beep as the email arrives in her inbox, and then a rustling as Josephine pulls away from the phone to look at it.

“Hmm.”

“What?” Bull asks, “are they bad?”

“Quite the opposite,” Josephine assures him, bringing the phone back to her ear, “it’s just... who are these tickets for?”

“Me and Dorian.”

“ _Oh._ ”

“What?” 

“Er, it’s just, well. Horns.”

“Ah fuck.” Bull’s now spent a good third of his life outside of a world built for those with horns (and even when he didn’t, not many people had horns quite as impressive as his). He’s gotten pretty good at minding them, at knowing which situations are going to require him to be nimble, or careful.

He’d been so focused on picking out (what he hoped were) the best seats, he’d managed not to think about the two rows of seats behind them on the balcony.

“Are there any other options?” Josephine prompts, gently.

“There’s some in the downstairs bit,” Bull says, scanning, “at the back.”

“I’m sure that’ll be fine, Josephine insists, though she sounds the opposite of certain.

“I’ll figure something out,” Bull says, “thanks.”

* * *

“I had no idea you were a fan,” Dorian says, taking his seat. It’s a good seat too. Right at the front of the balcony. He risks a glance at Bull’s height, and horns, but no one seems to have taken any of the seats behind them yet.

Bull shrugs, taking his own seat. “I am a man of mystery.”

Dorian shakes his head, laughs, “you really aren’t.”

“Hey!” Bull objects, “I have hidden depths.”

“Blessed is the Maker,” Dorian says, hands clasped in mock prayer, “that Sera wasn’t here to hear that.”

“If I’m such an open book,” Bull points out, “how come you didn’t know I liked musicals.”

“It’s not a _musical_ ,” Dorian says, waving his programme at Bull, though it’s unclear if this is meant as a threat or an invitation to read, “it’s a _rock opera_.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Well,” Dorian admits, “there is some overlap of the terms, I suppose, but it’s related to the proportions with which it is sung through, and a rock opera is much more closely related to a traditional opera than your average musical.”

“Ah, I see,” Bull says, grinning “it’s an opera but with rock music. A _rock_ opera. A ‘ropera’ if you will.”

“No,” Dorian, “ _absolutely not_.”

* * *

“Oh, we went to see _Laurels_ the other night,” Dorian adds, throwing his legs over the arm of the couch, turning speakerphone on an laying it on his chest.

“A local production?”

“Touring.”

“Any good?”

“Could have been worse I suppose,” Dorian admits, “the lead could actually sing and about half the cast had some sense of rhythm. It was a good night even if I had to spend the entire intermission debating the difference between a musical and rock opera with a man who doesn’t seem to know what either of those words mean,” he continues, letting his voice rise at the end since he knows full-well that Bull can hear him from the kitchen.

“ _Ropera!”_

“What was that?” Felix asks.

“Nothing I dear repeat in polite company,” Dorian explains. “Luckily we had the balcony to ourselves for some reason.”

“To yourselves?”

“Yes, it was quite odd. It wasn’t an entirely full house, but there were plenty of people there. Must have been some glitch with the ticketing software,” Dorian muses, “but I’m not complaining. It’s not often one gets that sort of private seating.”

* * *

> **[Direct message]**
> 
> **[20:08 | Felix]** Did the Iron Bull buy out the entire balcony the other night??
> 
> **[20:11 | Josephine]** Come again?
> 
> **[20:11 | Felix]** Did he buy out the entire balcony. Dorian says they were the only ones up there?
> 
> **[20:12 | Josephine]** Surely not. I know he was worried about getting the right seats and his horns but... One moment please.

> **[Direct message]**
> 
> **[20:13 | Josephine]** Did you find a solution for the seating issue?
> 
> **[20:15 | The Iron Bull]** Oh, yeah. found some other seats dorian was happy with.
> 
> **[20:16 | Josephine]** You didn’t, for example, acquire tickets for all of the seats behind you so that you wouldn’t have to worry?
> 
> **[20:17 | The Iron Bull]** course not, that would be crazy

> **[Direct message]**
> 
> **[20:19 | Josephine]** He absolutely did.
> 
> **[20:20 | Josephine]** Did Dorian catch on at least?
> 
> **[20:21 | Felix]** He thinks it was a glitch with the ticketing software.

* * *

“Are you ever self-conscious about your horns in certain... situations?” Dorian asks Herah. The movie’s still playing in the background, but it’s one they’ve seen so many times Dorian’s not sure how he’s not sick of it yet.

“What situations?” Herah says, looking at him sidelong, “like _sex_?”

“No!” Dorian says throwing up his hands, “I mean, yes the thought had crossed my mind but I’m a gay man with an internet connection. I knew the answer to that one before I thought of asking it.”

“Remind me to never check your browser history.”

Dorian rolls his eyes. “I meant things like going out. The cinema for example.”

“Oh,” she says, then shrugs, “yeah I guess. It’s alright if you’re at the back but people can be dicks about it. Mostly just watch stuff a home but it’s not like the big screen, you know?”

“I can imagine.”

“Why’d you ask?”

“It had just never occurred to me,” Dorian admits, “not until recently.”

* * *

“Up a little,” Dorian instructs, “left just a touch.”

“Remind me again why you’re not just doing this yourself?” Cullen asks from where he’s crouched, attempting to adjust the alignment of the projector that Dorian has appropriated from the office (nobody will be looking for it until Monday at least).

“Because I haven’t got a good perspective from there,” Dorian reminds him, “and because you like to be helpful.”

Cullen makes a grumpy noise but doesn’t object, and follows Dorian’s last few cues without complaint.

“Perfect,” Dorian says, “at least, as perfect as can be achieved with a bedsheet.”

“What are you watching again?” Cullen asks, standing up and stretching.

“Not sure yet,” Dorian says, resting his hand on the pile of options he has set aside, “I asked the Chargers what his favourite movie was and got half a dozen different answers so I got them all.”

“Are those...” Cullen frowns, “are those _DVDs_.”

“Yes?”

“Shiny disc DVDs?”

“Are there any others?”

Cullen shakes his head in disbelief, “where did you even get those? Why not stream them?”

“From the library, if you must know,” Dorian says, “and I’m far too familiar with video conferencing to trust an internet connection to perform under pressure.”

Dorian’s watch beeps quietly and he glances down at it. “Right, I best get moving. The film in cinema two has just started, and it takes 7 minutes to drive there, so by the time I get there the candy bar line should be non-existent. Ten minutes to park and make my purchases, then seven minutes back. Bull’s due home in half an hour, which gives us six minutes to spare.

“Us?”

“I can’t have him coming home early and catching me out,” Dorian says, “I need you to stick around and stall him.”

“Stall him how?”

“However you like,” Dorian says, patting him on the arm, “just don’t panic.”

* * *

> **[Direct message]**
> 
> **[18:24 | The Iron Bull]** not to alarm you or anything, but Cullen seems to have barricaded himself inside of our house. Is he okay?
> 
> **[18:25 | Dorian]** is he ever?

> **Direct message]**
> 
> **[18:25 | Dorian]** What Did You Do?????
> 
> **[18:26 | Cullen]** I panicked.

* * *

Bull makes it all of a dozen steps into the house before he gets caught. His knee’s achy from being up and down all day. Nothing too bad, but enough that he wants to get Dorian’s rune-brace on it. He’s careless grabbing the banister, and bangs it hard enough to make himself hiss, and the hiss is loud enough to catch Dorian’s attention from where he’s folding laundry in the lounge.

“Are you alright?” he asks, head poking around the corner, before catching sight of the bandage wrapped around Bull’s thumb, “ _Bull_.”

“It’s fine,” Bull insists, trying to tuck his hand away but Dorian’s always a little quicker than Bull expects him to be, and he’s caught Bull’s wrist before he can move it away properly.

“I was just helping Blackwall out with some stuff and nicked it,” Bull explains while Dorian somethings it, “it’s fine really.”

“You should be more careful with your digits,” Dorian chides, “you’ve few enough left as it is.”

“Yes _dad_ ,” Bull says, rolling his eye.

“I may have daddy issues,” Dorian says, glaring and poking Bull in the chest with one finger, “but I assure you I don’t have _those_ sorts of daddy issues.”

* * *

> **[Group chat: Operation D4D]**
> 
> **[14:32 | Blackwall]** Special Walnut, Pickled Oak, or Erudite Cherry?
> 
> **[14:34 | Cullen]** Um?
> 
> **[14:34 | Josephine]** Did you forget to send the photo again?
> 
> **[14:35 | Blackwall has sent an image]**
> 
> **[14:37 | Varric]** what’s it for?
> 
> **[14:38 | Blackwall** ] Bookcase.
> 
> **[14:38 | Varric]** for?
> 
> **[14:39 | Blackwall]** Dorian.
> 
> **[14:40 | Josephine]** You’re staining a bookcase for Dorian?
> 
> **[14:41 | Blackwall]** Bull is building a bookcase for Dorian. I’m helping.
> 
> **[14:41 | Josephine]** That’s lovely! I like Special Walnut and Erudite Cherry.
> 
> **[14:42 | Varric]** definitely erudite cherry 

* * *

“Okay, pivot,” Bull says, craning his neck to see where Blackwall is in relation to the doorframe they’re trying to carry the bookcase through.

“I am!” Blackwall snaps, “you have to move too.”

“That’s not what pivoting means. It means one end moves and the other doesn’t.”

“Yeah well I can’t pivot this end unless you pivot that end.”

“That’s not pivoting.”

The bookcase jumps in Bulls hands slightly as Blackwall adjusts his grip. “whatever you want to call it then, but I can’t move unless you do.”

Somehow, it takes two fully grown men with all the physical skills and spatial awareness needed to build a bookcase _five entire minutes_ just to get said bookcase into Dorian’s room. There’s another five shifting the old one into the shed, and fifteen more trying to reshelve all the books into Bull’s closest guess on the order they’d been before.

(Bull’s put cold hard cash on Dorian critiquing his categorisation skills by the end of the day)

Blackwall’s frowning at the bookcase, last tome in hand, glancing from shelf to shelf to cover to shelf when there’s the rattle of keys at the door.

“ _Shit,_ ” Bull says, glancing at his watch, “he’s home early, fuck.”

“Honey, I’m home!” Dorian calls out from the hallway.

Bull’s eyes go wide, and before Blackwall has a chance to process what’s happening, Bull is snatching the book out of his hand, and shoving it onto a random shelf, before grabbing Blackwall by both shoulders and shoving him into Dorian’s wardrobe.

“ _Sorry_ ,” he hisses,pushing the door closed, “just shh for now.”

* * *

> **[Group chat: Operation D4D]**
> 
> **[16:23 | Blackwall]** Bull’s giving Dorian the bookcase.
> 
> **[16:23 | Josephine]** You did a wonderful job, I’m sure he will love it!
> 
> **[16:23 | Blackwall]** Yeah, he’s asking about the design influences
> 
> **[16:23 | Varric]** How do you know that? You spying on them?
> 
> **[16:24 | Blackwall]** In a manner of speaking.
> 
> **[16:24 | Blackwall]** Erudite Cherry was a good choice apparently.
> 
> **[16:25 | Herah]** Hang on, can we circle back to the whole spying thing pls?
> 
> **[16:25 | Leliana]** I’m also quite interested
> 
> **[16:25 | Krem]** same
> 
> **[16:25 | Blackwall has sent an image]**
> 
> **[16:25 | Herah]** what is that?
> 
> **[16:26 | Varric]**...are you IN Sparkler’s wardrobe?
> 
> **[16:26 | Blackwall]** Long story
> 
> **[16:26 | Krem]** bullshit
> 
> **[16:27 | Blackwall]** Okay, short story
> 
> **[16:27 | Blackwall]** Hang on!
> 
> **[16:27 | Blackwall]** Dorian just made a dick joke, we’re off!
> 
> **[16:27 | Varric]** Finally.
> 
> ******[16:27 | Blackwall]** “If you were so eager to polish my wood, all you had to do was ask”
> 
> **[16:28 | Herah]** holy shit
> 
> **[16:28 | Blackwall]** False alarm. Bull’s telling him the colour’s due to the stain not the polish.
> 
> **[16:28 | Blackwall]** He’s providing care instructions.
> 
> **[16:29 | Leliana]** Oh for fuck’s sake.

* * *

“Do you have a minute?” Dorian asks when Krem picks up, “I have a question. A Bull question.”

There’s a rustling noise as Krem shifts the phone around to cut out some of the background noise, “yeah, shoot.”

Dorian leans as far back in his desk chair as he can without making more healthy and safety paperwork for himself, “what’s Bull’s favourite animal.”

“You’re not getting him a puppy.”

“Wasn’t planning on it. Should I have been?”

“No!” Krem snaps, before pausing and continuing in a slightly more normal voice, “his entire life would be about the puppy. He would quit his job for more puppy hours. He would turn your room into the puppy’s room. It’s name would be _six words long_.”

“You’ve, er, really thought this one through, haven’t you.”

“Occupational hazard.”

“Well then,” Dorian continues, “if I promise not to adopt any pets, will you tell me what Bull’s favourite animal is?”

“Domestic or wild?” Krem asks, sounding a touch more reassured.

“Either.”

“Dragons,” Krem says, “hands down. How do you not know that?”

“I did,” Dorian replies, shrugging (there’s no need to skimp on body language just because the other person can’t see it after all), “I just wanted to make sure that it hadn’t changed, or he hadn’t developed an allergy or something.”

“A dragon allergy?”

“Well when you say it like that-”

“Could be right I suppose,” Krem cuts in, “he could do for all we know. Last I heard he’d never seen one and I’m fairly certain we would all have heard of it if he had. I don’t think we would ever stop hearing about it.”

“ _Apologies in advance then_ ,” Dorian mutters.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Dorian says, sitting back up and reaching for his computer keyboard, “talk to you later, bye!”

“Dor-”

* * *

> **[Direct message]**
> 
> **[09:31 | Dorian]** AITA if I hide my husband/roomate’s fanny pack so he can’t wear it in public?
> 
> **[09:36 | Felix]** I think so, unfortunately. Is this going to be a regular occurrence?
> 
> **[09:37 | Dorian]** We’re going on a day trip and since I won’t tell him where we’re going, he insists he need to be prepared.
> 
> **[09:39 | Felix]** Does it coordinate with his outfit at least?
> 
> **[09:41 | Dorian has sent an image]**
> 
> **[09:42 | Felix]** Oh... Oh dear. My sympathies.

* * *

> **[Direct message]**
> 
> **[09:45 | Felix]** Bull, Dorian, day trip. Does anyone know anything?
> 
> **[09:47 | Krem]** hang on

> **[Group chat: Operation D4D]**
> 
> **[09:49 | Felix Alexius has been invited to join the group]**
> 
> **[09:51 | Felix Alexius has joined the group]**
> 
> **[09:51 | Krem has forwarded a message]**
> 
> >> _[09:45 | Felix] Bull, Dorian, day trip. Does anyone know anything?_
> 
> **[09:52 | Josephine]** Welcome! I’m so sorry we didn’t add you sooner.
> 
> **[09:52 | Josephine]** And no, I haven’t heard anything. Where are they going?
> 
> **[09:53 | Felix]** Haven’t a clue.
> 
> **[09:54 | Leliana]** Do you know who’s car they’re taking? That might give us a clue as to how far they’re travelling.
> 
> **[09:54 | Felix]** Er, no. Not sure how I would ask that without sounding like a stalker.
> 
> **[09:55 | Leliana]** Hmm, have they left yet?
> 
> **[09:56 | Felix]** Possibly. Dorian hasn’t responded in about 15 minutes, though he may just be busy with his hair.
> 
> **[09:56 | Leliana]** @Varric you’re closest, go by and see which car is missing.
> 
> **[09:57 | Varric]** I can’t just run over there. I have a business to run
> 
> **[09:58 | Leliana]** It’s 10AM
> 
> **[09:58 | Varric]**...I have a novel to write. 
> 
> **[09:59 | Cole]** The Iron Bull’s car is gone. It’s more comfortable for a long drive. Dorian likes to drive it, even though he won’t admit it. There are seat warmers, and the bass is better than his car.
> 
> **[10:00 | Felix]** That was awfully specific. And quick.
> 
> **[10:01 | Krem]** You’ll get used to it.
> 
> **[10:01 | Josephine]** Cole likes to be helpful, he’s very good at it.
> 
> **[10:02 | Leliana]** Right, so they’re travelling some distance. At the earliest they left at 0945, and I can’t imagine Dorian will want to be back much later than 2200, probably earlier, which means the furthest they could travel on a ‘day trip’ is six hours, if they turned around and immediately came back.
> 
> **[10:02 | Varric]** Sounds a bit pointless.
> 
> **[10:02 | Leliana]** Precisely.
> 
> **[10:03 | Leliana]** Four hours at the destination is the minimum I would expect Dorian to spend at the destination, which means a maximum of four hours travel each way.
> 
> **[10:04 | Josephine]** Dorian tends to overestimate, he doesn’t like to be late.
> 
> **[10:04 | Leliana]** Lets say three hours maximum then, which narrows us down to this area
> 
> **[10:04 | Leliana has sent an image]**
> 
> **> >[10:04 | Felix to Krem] **Is Leliana okay?
> 
> **> >[10:05 | Krem to Felix] **she’s just like this, dw.
> 
> **[10:05 | Varric]** That’s a pretty big circle, Red.
> 
> **[10:06 | Josephine]** Well, I doubt they’re going into the Frostbacks.
> 
> **[10:06 | Krem]** and Dorian sure as shit ain’t getting on a ferry.
> 
> **[10:07 | Varric]** Narrows it down some I suppose. Who’s got money on Redcliffe?

* * *

“Why is everything here so _sticky_?” Dorian asks, holding his syrup covered hand from his body least he get something on his clothes, “for what they were charging you’d have thought they could supply containers that don’t leak immediately.”

“They’ve got a captive market,” Bull says, reaching into his fanny pack and pulling out a wet wipe, “don’t need to worry about quality when you’ve got no competition.”

“Thanks,” Dorian says, taking the wipe.

“See, aren’t you glad I brought this,” Bull says, patting the fanny pack proudly.

“Not even close.”

Dorian finishes cleaning his hand, does a quick check of his clothing, and satisfied that he’s as syrup-free as he’s going to get, short of a shower, tosses it in the bin.

“We can head off,” Bull offers, “if you’ve had enough.”

Dorian has, in fact, had rather enough. He’s been to a zoo once before, on a school trip back home. It had been a thoroughly depressing experience, but Ferelden zoos, Redcliffe in particular tend to be more focused on education and wildlife conservation and fostering a love of nature in children than in demonstrating their dominance over other species. Regardless, it is full of very loud children running very fast, adults having hushed arguments on whether or not to bribe said children into behaving, and a shocking number of animals that are simply loose on the premises (each one in turn causing Bull to stop abruptly to say hello). 

He checks his watch.

“Perfect. I am about ready to go but we have one more stop to make.”

“Really?” Bull says, glancing down at the map, “I’m pretty sure we’ve covered all the open areas.”

“Precisely.”

* * *

> **[17:06 | Incoming call from The Iron Bull]**

“Oh, here we go,” Krem says, waving his hand to catch Varric’s attention from down the bar, before pressing the answer button and putting the phone on speaker.

“KREM!” Bull’s voice echoes out, tiny and a touch distorted and somehow still incredibly loud. Cullen winces and leans back in his seat and Krem’s suddenly very happy he hadn’t been holding the thing to his ear.

“KREM!”

“Yeah, chief?” Krem says trying to figure out what in the void Cassandra’s eyebrows are trying to tell him.

“I TOUCHED A DRAGON.”

“You what?”

“TOUCHED A DRAGON! HER NAME IS GLORIA AND SHE’S SEVENTEEN MONTHS OLD HER FAVOURITE FOOD IS ARTICHOKES AND SHE’S THE MOST BEAUTIFUL THING I’VE EVER SEEN.”

“That’s amazing. Is, uh, is Dorian there?”

There’s a rustling as the phone changes hands. 

“Dorian speaking.”

“Hey, _hey_ _Pavus,_ ” Krem says, “when I told you not to get him a puppy, I didn’t mean ‘get him a _dragon_ ’.”

“Calm yourself, _Aclassi_ , I didn’t _get_ him a dragon. Gloria is still safely in the hands of Redcliffe Zoo’s dragon experts, I simply introduced them.”

“ _She’s perfect_ ,” Bull says in the background, “ _if anything happens to her I’ll kill everyone on this continent and then myself_.”

“Please tell me you frisked him on the way out?” Krem says.

“I assure you,” Dorian replies, “there is no way a man who _refuses to even button up his shirt_ could smuggle out a baby dragon but yes, we did.”

“ _They sell Gloria plushies,_ ” Bull adds in, “ _all the money goes to dragon conservation and shit. Dorian bought me one. Sorry Krem, but Dorian is now officially the best friend ever.”_

Krem hands the phone to Cassandra and drops his head onto the bar, _“these two numbskulls are going to kill me_.”

“What was that?” Dorian demands, “is everything alright?”

“Quite alright,” Cassandra assures him.

“Oh,” Dorian says, “I didn’t realise you were there.”

“Yes,” Cassandra says, “Cullen and Varric are here as well. You should send us all pictures.”

* * *

> **[You have 17 new notifications]**
> 
> **[The Iron Bull has updated his profile picture]**
> 
> **[The Iron Bull has updated his cover image]**
> 
> **[The Iron Bull has tagged you and 23 others in three new images]**

* * *

“Oh,” Dorian says, pausing mid forkful, “I’m going on a work trip next Friday. Just for the night. There’s a conference they want me to go to but I refuse to get up at 3AM to drive there, so they’re paying for me to stay the night before.”

“Where to?” Bull asks, once he’s finished his own mouthful.

“Skyhold.”

“Your hotel booked yet?”

“No...” Dorian says, “why?”

Bull shrugs, “been thinking about getting out of town for a few nights, visiting some friends. If you’re already going I could come with. Two birds, one trip.”

“Oh.”

“If that’s okay?”

“Yes, yes,” Dorian says, because honestly, there are far worse things than getting out of town with Bull for the weekend, “but I doubt I can convince the university to pay for more than one night is all.”

“I can cover the difference.”

“What,” Dorian says, arching an eyebrow, “like you covered Felix’s airfares?”

“Hey,” Bull says, “I got some decent airmiles on that, may as well use them, plus the expiry is shit.”

“Hmm.”

“If it makes you feel better,” Bull says, “it’ll still cost me less than if I go some other time, since your work will pay for half of it.”

“Exactly half,” Dorian says, pointing his fork at Bull in what he hopes is a menacing way, “I _will_ be seeing the paperwork for this one, thank you.”

“They reimburse you, yeah?”

“Up to a limit.”

“Alright then,” Bull says leaning back in his chair, “you send me what your work will cover and I’ll find something that costs twice that and they can pay me back.”

“That seems reasonable.”

“Oh, you know me, the reasonablist of guys.”

* * *

> **[Direct message]**
> 
> **[09:36 | The Iron Bull]** Josie, do you have any contacts in the hotel industry?

* * *

> **[Group: Operation D4D]**
> 
> **[16:04 | Josephine]** Which do you think would be better, this one:
> 
> **[16:04 | Josephine has shared a link]**
> 
> **[16:04 | Josephine]** or this one:
> 
> **[16:04 | Josephine has shared a link]**
> 
> **[16:05 | Josephine]** The first room has a better view, but the second room has better champagne.
> 
> **[16:05 | Herah]** Is this for us?
> 
> **[16:06 | Josephine]** Oh. No love I’m sorry. We could though, another time. This is for Bull and Dorian. 
> 
> **[16:06 | Sera]** are we just straight up locking them in a room together until they figure it out?
> 
> **[16:06 | Josephine]** No! Dorian is going away for a work trip. Bull wants to go with him and has tasked me with finding suitably romantic accommodation.
> 
> **[16:07 | Varric]** @Sera you might be onto something there
> 
> **[16:07 | Varric]** @Josephine did he use the word *romantic*??
> 
> **[16:07 | Josephine]** Very nearly...
> 
> **[16:07 | Varric]** Close enough. I vote second room. Sparkler’s picky with booze at the best of times.
> 
> **[16:08 | Sera]** and the plan is they won’t have much time to be admiring the views ay ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

* * *

> **[19:12 | Incoming Call from Dorian Pavus]**

Despite the fact that Felix has strategically placed his phone where there is no chance of him missing a notification, he’s still surprised to see it go off.

“Dorian?”

“...Yes? Who else would be calling you from my phone?”

_Bull_? Felix doesn’t say.

“No one,” Felix does say, “I just didn’t expect to hear from you until later.”

“Why not?”

“Oh,” Felix says, “just that you were... traveling. For your work trip. With Bull.”

There’s a pause. “Are you quite alright?”

“Perfectly! How is the work trip.”

“Wonderful, actually,” Dorian says, “we can’t be bothered going out for food so we’re ordering room service.”

“ _Charging this much for fries is criminal,_ ” comes Bull’s distant and muffled voice.

“Correction,” Dorian says, “I’m ordering room service and Bull is complaining about the cost of room service.”

“Sounds like a nice place.”

“It is,” Dorian enthuses, “Bull’s a bit of a genius actually, did you know that if you book one of those ‘romantic getaway’ deals they give you free champagne and a room with a fancy bath and chocolates and fancy massage oils which I _assume_ they don’t want back. We did have to shift all the rose petals off the bed when we got here but it’s a small price to pay.”

“That sounds... lovely,” Felix says, resisting the urge to slam his head into the nearest hard surface, if only so he doesn’t have to explain the noise. 

* * *

**[19:36 | Incoming call from Felix Alexius]**

“Hey,” Krem says, picking up the phone.

“Have you spoken to Bull?”

“Yep. You spoken to Dorian?”

Felix sighs, “I have. They’re never going to figure this out, are they?”

“Nope.”

“Well then. Plan B?”

“Plan B.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea of Alexius turning to pseudoscience and "alternative therapies" to try and "fix" his chronically ill son is something I unashamedly stole from [illimerence](https://archiveofourown.org/users/illimerence/pseuds/illimerence) who has some amazing fics that you should read and who will be posting some Dorian/Bull fake relationship fic soon that I also highly recommend.


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